


the sudden heaviness of her sword

by supernatasha



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassins & Hitmen, F/M, Fan theories, Future Fic, Series Spoilers, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernatasha/pseuds/supernatasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Baratheon bastard sits reluctantly on the throne when she returns to Westeros, his name on her lips, a sword in her hands. They put a crown on her head instead and suddenly, the girl who loathed being a lady has become a Queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bit Too Sharp

  
_I am an avenging goddess,_ she said _,_ severely _.  
What about that do you not understand?_

_I need you,_ he said _. Even without your costumes.  
_ _I lie in the dark and think of you. Every night more._

...

When he learns his blood is Barathon, Gendry is silent and brooding, studying the armored knights from King's Landing who hold the legitimizing decree in their hands. Evidence can be forged, he knows, but there is no way to forge his blue eyes and black hair and the bald soft man staring at him.

"Varys," he'd introduced himself. "I'm here to take you back to King's Landing and have you placed on the Iron Throne as Robert Baratheon's heir. You're his eldest son."

And he watches them, speechless, wary. He knows outside the door to the inn's kitchen are several orphaned children and Jeyne Heddle with her ear pressed to the door to listen. He knows Varys knows as well. That's why he speaks in a low lilting cadence, leaning forward intimately.

"Who signed the decree?" Gendry asks finally. "You'll recall last time I was in King's Landing, the queen tried to have me killed."

"Ah, Queen Cersei has suffered quite unfortunately. She should be no trouble to you," Varys murmurs, looking genuinely saddened. "The ruling regent at the moment is Kevan Lannister's son, Martyn. He has publicly admitted, to some shame to his own family, that Tommen is a Lannister by birth."

"Is he? How?"

"The boy's father is Jamie Lannister."

"Then who's his mother?" Gendry frowns.

"Oh, it's still the queen."

"Fucking hell," Gendry swears, eyebrows drawn together in realization. Instead of disgust as he would expect, he feels a stirring of pity for the child. He exhales and mutters, "Well, I'm a bastard."

"A Baratheon bastard," Varys consoles. "and that is worth more than a Lannister bastard. Don't disappoint us now, son. We've come a very long way for you."

Gendry leans back, a grim expression on his face.

"You look like I'm having you executed. Oh, dear child, don't look so glum. You're a King now!"

Gendry doesn't tell Varys that's exactly why he's terrified.

...

Human blood is warm and sticky, no matter whose it is and no matter how much of it flows. And it's always glistening a wet red. She has seen more blood than a soldier in war, more than a midwife, more than a girl of ten and five should ever see.

Of course it had started with the blood on Joffrey's hands when Nymeria bit through to his bone and that was barely human blood. It was monster blood.

She doesn't remember Joffrey anymore, barely remembers Nymeria. When she tries to think of the direwolf, all that comes to mind is a snarl of fangs and fur and nothing more. Doesn't matter.

She is now Cat of the Canals, not her real name but she doesn't know what her real name is anymore. She is a Faceless Braavosi. She barely even remembers the Common Tongue.

The Kindly Man gives her assignment after assignment and she completes it with honesty and without emotion. Men, women, babes. She changes faces like clothing, tongues like boots. Braavos has more people slated to die than to live, it seems.

Finally, she gets her first name away from Braavos, somewhere across the Narrow Sea. King's Landing. The name of the place might have sounded familiar to her once, but now it is nothing.

"Who do I send to the Many Faced God?" she questions.

The Kindly Man shuffles a scroll in his hands and peers at the tiny words inscribed upon it. He seems to get younger some days and other days it is a wonder he is still even alive. At last he looks up and says, "Gendry Baratheon."

Stony faced, Cat nods and turns away.

...

The Iron Throne is uncomfortable to sit upon and his arse is sore within a few meager hours after his coronation. But he is forced to keep his patience, sipping overly-sweet Dornish red wine and accepting fealties of this lord and that, of Houses he doesn't know, of knights and millers and curtsying ladies in gowns and jewels that could have kept the orphans at the Crossroads Inn fed for a year. He keeps his gaze out for a brown-haired, grey-eyed lady but he doesn't recognize her face among any of his new subjects. Of course not. The Starks were lost, with the exception of Lady Stoneheart and was she still even human, let alone Stark?

Beside him, a squire, Steffan Swyft, faithfully recites every entering person worth knowing loudly, then quietly whispers to Gendry how he should address them and how vital their loyalty is to the crown.

It's almost embarrassing how little he knows of the way of nobles and their politics.

Finally, long after the sun has set and the hall is shrouded in darkness, the doors of the palace are closed and Gendry rises from the throne, shrugging off his heavy embroidered cape of yellow and black and throwing the golden crown from his black hair so it bounces unceremoniously on the ground.

"I'd be careful with that, Your Grace. It's worth more than the pay of every man in this hall combined," Varys admonishes.

A member of his Kingsguard snickers and Gendry feels his face turn red. The squire fetches the crown and holds it out with reverence.

"I don't want it," Gendry mutters to Swyft, suddenly foolish at his outburst.

"Come, King Gendry, let's go to your chambers," Varys hastily guides him away from the hall and prying eyes of noblemen and the sneers of Gold Cloaks.

He was still wary of his apparent guards after running from them for the past year or so. He feels like dirt up against these people anyway. He can feel their silent judgment shadowing his every step, _a bastard, a smith, a nobody._ Gendry sullenly follows Varys up the steps to the royal chambers. "If you love the bloody thing so much, why don't you wear it?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Varys says without turning to look at him.

"Can you at least be my Hand and sit by me instead of Martyn or Steffan? I swear I'm gonna bash that squeaky Swyft lad's fucking head in."

Varys looks amused as well as annoyed. "The people would never stand for me being the Hand."

"The people would stand for anything they're made to stand for. Remember, I was one of those people you love so much to talk about."

"It's more complicated than that. And we have pressing matters to discuss, so if you'd like to stop whining now, perhaps we should get on with it," Varys sounds impatient.

Gendry feigns surprise. "Pressing matters? You mean my lessons this past week weren't pressing enough?"

"Excuse me, young man," Varys scolds. "Teaching you how to pronounce an enunciated and refined my lady instead of a garbled low class m'lady was vital."

"I'm sure," Gendry snaps sarcastically. He's always _Your Grace_ out in public oozing with respect, and a novice behind closed doors who Varys has no problems shaking a finger at. "You'd best start with these pressing matters now."

Varys heaves a sigh and Gendry rolls his eyes at the dramatic gesture. "I just don't know where to begin. There is so much going on: Daenerys and her dragons in Essos, relations with Dorne, the Sept and the Warrior's Sons, the swiftly nearing winter, your impending marriage –"

"My what?" Gendry interrupts.

"Surely you realize that the sooner you marry someone of a Noble House and have heirs, legitimate children, the safer your position will be. Now, I would suggest the obvious Margery Tyrell, but I am unsure how many times a rose can be admired without eventually being plucked. Surely you understand."

"Of course," Gendry lies, though he has no idea what Varys means. He has very little idea most days of what Varys means. It seems he is constantly thinking decades ahead and Gendry struggles just to imagine an hour into the future.

"The Great Houses may not be out of the question yet. I could always try to talk to the Martells. Arianne is still unwed, though I am certain her fate lies with a dragon and not a stag," Varys muses.

Gendry stares at Varys in confusion. "A dragon? A Targaryen?"

"Never you mind that. Some of the Northern houses still wouldn't mind sending a daughter south. There's always a Frey girl, though that really should be more of a last option. The Greyjoys have a daughter- honestly, no one really knows what's going on in the Iron Islands anymore. There's the Swyfts."

"Swyfts," Gendry snorts. "If she's anything like Steffan, I'll sooner swear celibacy than be wed to her."

"Don’t underestimate these lesser houses, boy. At least I'm not marrying you off to a Slynt."

"What about a Stark?"

Varys raises an eyebrow. "A Stark? Sansa's missing and Arya's already married to Roose Bolton's bastard."

"She's what?" Gendry had known nothing of this, had heard no rumors of Arya's marriage. Bolton, _Bolton_. He searches his memory, wondering why the name sounds familiar. He remembers abruptly: Roose Bolton and his vassals were northerners, Stark's bannermen who turned against the young wolf and aided House Frey in the Red Wedding. Heat rises to his cheeks, pulse quickening. "She's married to Ramsay Snow?"

"You didn't know? Littlefinger arranged her marriage some time ago and sent the girl from King's Landing to the Dreadfort soon after her father was executed. She's in Winterfell now."

"That's impossible," Gendry scoffs, though relief courses through his veins. "She travelled with me on the King's Road. I spent time with her."

Varys's eyes narrow to slits. "Must have been an imposter."

"No, she-"

"An imposter," Varys growls, his voice shockingly low and intense for a eunch. "Do you understand, Your Grace? You would be wise not to repeat your suspicions to anyone else. The real Arya Stark is married to Ramsay Bolton and he's lucky to have such a beautiful docile brown-eyed bride."

Gendry nearly blurts, Arya had angry grey eyes. But just in time, he realizes Varys's warning and bites his tongue. "I understand. Guess I'm not marrying a Stark after all."

"Maybe Brienne of Tarth, or one of the Hightower or Florent lasses," Varys continues, naming houses and daughters, and Gendry tunes him out, suddenly disinterested in the topic.

...

The ship she boards at Ragman's Harbor for King's Landing is full of sailors and commoners. They leave at dawn, air frigid and salty, the sun a red smudge on the horizon. Winter is slow to come to the South. She brings nothing but an extra change of clothes tucked into her waistband and a pack slung around her shoulders filled with weapons.

Around midday, a peasant approaches her as she stands on deck staring out into the deep blue of the sea.

"You're too pretty a thing to be up here alone," he leers.

"Are you going to give me company, good ser?" she asks sweetly.

His gaze flits from her shoes up to her face, lingering at her breasts. "Would you like that?"

"I'd like it very much, but I'm sure my friend would like it even more," she answers.

The man frowns, not comprehending. "What friend?"

"This one," Cat answers, pulling a skinny little sword from under her breeches and holding it to his throat in a single fluid motion. "Her name is Needle and she loves to fuck, but I'm afraid her quick tongue is a bit too sharp for most men to handle."

Swallowing loudly, the man backs away slowly. Smirking, Cat sheathes the sword back into her trousers. Standing straight, the blade is nearly unnoticeable on her skinny tall frame. She returns her attention to the rolling waves. There is a single name in her mind and she soon loses herself in the gentle lapping sounds of the sea.

Cat helps the sailors with their knots and only has to ward off one other leering man, the ship's cook, before the crew begins regarding her as one of their own, joking with her and discussing current matters. She learns from their banter that the man who was soon to become the Many-Faced God's next gift is a king- the king, in fact, of Westeros.

"A bloody bastard, wouldja believe it?" one of them shakes his head. 

"Aren't they all?" Cat replies and the men burst out laughing, she with them, but it takes her a moment longer to join in.

It only takes a few days to reach the shores of Westeros. As soon as they dock, Cat leaps off the ship and leaves without farewells. She's near the city. Cat consults her map and heads off to King's Landing on foot. She could get a horse but there is not much distance and she doesn't want to attract attention. The closer she gets, the more distinct the scent becomes: of smoke and shit and spoiling meat.

Cat knows from the sailor's conversation that the gates are always locked and under heavy watch, but she thinks, vaguely, that there is another way in. A sewer or a grate or a tunnel. Something. It nags at her mind. So instead of going to examine the gates, she stays at the outskirts of the city and keeps her eyes open for some sort of entrance.

When she finds it, a small stone tube, she is hit with nostalgia like she can't recall ever feeling before- like she's a child again, a child lost and scared and looking for her father. Cat shakes her head vigorously and steadies her nerves. What was wrong with her? She was a faceless Braavosi, a woman grown who knew nothing of her memory before this life.

The tube stinks and is far too cramped for her body, but Cat manages to crawl along it, the air growing progressively stale and dry as she heads downward. She does a quick mental inventory along the way: she has a sword, several arrowheads and an unstrung bow folded in her pack, feathered needles slathered in poisons, and of course her bare hands. But first, she would need to find King Gendry Baratheon. She has never dealt with someone so prominent before and feels a certain thrill at the prospect.

The tunnel takes several turns and twists and grows, shrinks so Cat has to turn back and take a different branch several times. Finally, it opens into a wide spacious room that smells like fresh baked bread and tarts. Cat's stomach growls and she crawls out into the empty kitchen. She snatches a loaf cooling on a rack. Her fingers tear a long strip from the crust and she stuffs it in her mouth, observing her surroundings. The kitchen is filled with food, chicken and goat, pies and lemon cakes that drive a sharp pang into Cat's chest, entire buckets full of flour and barley and rice, all neatly labeled, standing against a wall. She's in the palace kitchens.

A sound alerts Cat into action. She leaves through the back and down a long hall and finds herself in another room, this one filled with scrolls and thick bound tomes. Cat stays against the wall when she leaves and runs up the stairs fleet footed, chewing on the last of the bread. On the second floor, she tries the different doors. All of them seem empty, some with beds, others with wide benches or seats.

She eventually opens one that has a bathtub, a wide wooden pool with surprisingly warm water inside. Cat becomes painfully aware of how filthy and stinky her adventure in the tunnel left her. There are two doors in this bath chamber. With a quick glance around to ensure there was no one else with her, Cat shuts both doors behind her, leaving both unlocked with reluctance.

Cat sighs when the warm water hits her hands. She splashes her face and scrubs with her nails, relishing in the scented oils in the water. It's only then that she realizes that if the water is warm and already scented, it is waiting for someone. Almost simultaneously, she hears someone in one of the rooms. Cat grabs her things and runs for the opposite room, pressing herself against the wall just as she hears the other bath door open.

 _That was close,_ she scolds herself mentally, listening to two separate sets of footsteps make their way inside.

Moments later, a deep voice says, "I can undress myself, thanks Swyft."

"Of course, Your Grace, I was just helping."

"Are you going to get in the fucking bath with me too?" the first man grumbles.

"N-no, of course not."

"Then fuck off. Wait outside."

One of the footsteps leave and Cat tenses, expecting trouble. But the footsteps go out the other door and she relaxes again. Water ripples and then there's quiet, save for a long slow sigh.

He must be the king. The man that left, Swyft, had called him Your Grace. Who else could it be? Even as she is considering, she hears a new sound, the sloshing of water over the edges of the tub, an audible quickening of breath.

Cat peeks around the doorframe, the king's profile in her view. His eyes are shut tightly, dark eyelashes against the tan of his skin. He holds his cock in one hand. She rolls her eyes and looks away, then curiously returns her gaze to him. His biceps flex with every movement, lazy and languid, well-formed muscles visible in his shoulder with every jerk.

Then, a sigh so soft Cat has to strain to hear it, "Arya..."

Cat is distracted suddenly, like she has been slapped across the face by the name. She frowns and draws in on herself against the wall and tries to snap out of it, out of the haze. It is why she misses the sounds: water splashing, wet footsteps, the sound of fabric on skin.

Then he's walking out before her, tall broad shoulders, glinting blue eyes and shaggy long coal black hair, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He doesn't notice her at first and his appearance is enough to shock Cat out of her previous confusion. She leaps from the shadowed corner and draws her dagger from her boot in the same movement. He's a head taller than her but she digs one hand into his shoulder and presses the blunt side of the dagger to his throat, hissing, "Move and you're dead."

The king makes a strangled gasping noise and goes rigid. "What do you want?" he whispers.

"Shh..." she murmurs, almost soothingly. "King Gendry Baratheon."

"Are you here to kill me?"

It annoys her that he isn't scared speechless, that despite his stillness, his pulse is loud and wet in his neck. At least he has confirmed his identity. She says softly in his ear, "Do you think that is why I am here, Your Grace?"

"I think if you were, you would have done it by now."

Yes, he's right. It should be done by now. No talking, no teasing. All it would take is a flick of her wrist, a smooth slitting of his throat to hit the vein and let his blood pour out.

Then he asks, "Who are you?"

And Cat makes the biggest mistake a Faceless Man can make: she hesitates and her wrist goes slack for just a fraction of a moment.

It gives Gendry all the time he needs. One elbow smashes into her nose and she grunts, falling back hard. Blood spurts from both nostrils, the pain sharp and refreshing. She keeps her dagger clutched in her palm as she bounces back to her feet and swings at him. The blade connects with his chest and a thin slice of red opens up, barely a trickle, but it distracts him for long enough so Cat's fist connects with his jaw.

"Fuck," he groans, losing balance and crashing into the stand beside the bed. She punches him again, this time knocking him over so he gets down on one knee. She takes a step forward.

Before she can finish the job, the door flies open, the one opposite the bath, and three guards in armor are surrounding her. They circle her, Gendry kneeling on the floor an arm's length away, her bloody fist gripping the dagger.

"Surrender!" the first guard shouts, his sword drawn. She's outnumbered and possibly outmatched. Cat's just considering her escape tactic in her head that she's certain will get her out (dagger thrown straight into the second one's skull, sweep the first one's legs out, take his sword, run the third one through, return to drive the point into the first one's heart, _get the fuck out and run_ ). But then all her plans go to shit when the king looks up and his bright eyes meet hers.

His lips part, and he silently mouths the syllables, "Arya."

For the third time in that day, Cat's attention is drawn to somewhere inside herself, somewhere she doesn't recognize but has been to before.

In the next instant, the guard behind her has the point of his sword at the base of her spine and she's throwing down her dagger, both hands slowly rising up in hopeless surrender. One of the guards, she's lost track which one, slams her chest-first against the wall, her wrists gathered in both of his hands. Bound tightly, they turn her face front again and shove her roughly forward.

Behind her, King Gendry asks, "Where are you taking her?"

The shouting guard answers curtly, "Dungeons."

Cat's heart sinks.


	2. You've Been Paying Attention

The first time Gendry goes in to see her, Varys trails him the entire way down to the dungeons, telling him it is a bad idea, that the guards are interrogating her to find out who hired her, what her mission is in King's Landing.

"There are things a king should not muddy his hands in," he ends his long tirade at last. "And personally going to speak with assassins and spies is dirty work."

Gendry debates for a moment before looking down at Varys and telling him the truth, "It's Arya."

"I beg your pardon?" Varys looks faint but keeps up Gendry's quick pace, never once faltering. It constantly surprises Gendry to learn how quick and strong Varys is despite his appearance.

"The assassin. It's Arya. She didn't kill me because she recognized me but it was definitely her," he admits. Gendry tries to gauge his reaction but Varys keeps his expression very controlled. At the bend to her cell, Gendry stops in the small poorly lit hall and watches the man. "So?"

"You've rendered me speechless," Varys says dryly. "Arya Stark returns to King's Landing to try and assassinate you. You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't care if you believe me or not; it's true. Now, are you coming in with me or do you plan to just stand there?"

Varys smiles and turns his back to Gendry. He walks away without saying any more, leaving Gendry bewildered and suddenly uncertain. He may very well be Gendry's only ally in the city and he was loathe to lose him over mere suspicion.

But when he works up his nerve and walks up to her cell, the guards part ways to let him see her and his doubt vanishes as he looks into her grey eyes.

It was her. Bloody and beaten and bruised, but her.

He doesn't know if he should be relieved or angry.

…

Cat doesn't tell them anything, not her name, not her purpose in King's Landing, not her hometown. They beat her black and blue, until she thinks more of her blood is spread out on the stone floor than held inside her fragile skin.

The king's face is seared into her thoughts. The way his muscled body had moved, his eyes watching her get led down to the dungeon, equal parts hurt and haunted and all parts familiar. She doesn't know why she thinks she recognizes him when she doesn't. It scares her more than the guards fists do.

When the king comes to see her, she spits and tries to strangle him, but she is held back and Gendry Baratheon is swiftly escorted out, and the guards return to their task. She manages the pain as well as she can, only being unable to help the gasps escaping her throat when the whip sears through her tunic and her bones feel lit on fire.

In a delirious state, she thinks she overhears one of the guards talking about a public execution. Even that nags at the back of her exhausted mind like a sting, the image of a bearded man and a sword passing through his neck. Tears form in the corners of her eyes and she doesn't know why. Strangely, it is for the man she has created in her mind instead of for her own impending fate.

 _Valar Morghulis,_ Cat thinks.

No, she does not fear death. But whenever it comes, she whispers to it, "Not today."

…

When he goes in to see her the second time, convinced the visit would go better now, Arya's face has lost all luster and he struggles to find patches not bruised, not purple or bloodied, not cut or scabbed. Her clothes are torn, hanging off her naked body so he grimaces and pretends not to notice.

He stands with his arms crossed, studying her eyes for any recognition, for some sign that she knew him. Other than her shallow breathing, she doesn't react. Gendry reaches for the flask around his neck and holds it out at her swollen lip, the lower one split down the middle.

She spits the first mouthful, bloody and dribbling down her chin, but swallows the next one greedily.

It pains him to see her in this state, reduced from the fiery Arya he knew to this broken one. He realizes somewhere inside that it is only her body looking broken. Surely her soul is tempered with steel and would not fall apart so easily. At last, he says, "I won't let them hurt you anymore, I promise."

She shrugs, oh stubborn Arya, and murmurs, "I held a dagger to the king's throat. By all accounts, I should be dead."

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Faceless Men have no names," she replies. "Your guards have given up asking me. They know better than you, it seems."

The Faceless Men. They had been mentioned by Varys before. An organization in Braavos, if he recalls correctly. His father had hired them for something, perhaps the Targaryen girl or some other similar conquest. He can ask later. For now, Gendry holds up both hands. "Okay, no names. What do you call yourself, then?"

She frowns, as if thinking, as if she cannot remember. Finally, she says, "Cat of the Canals."

"Even Faceless, you cannot let go, can you?"

She doesn't understand, wrinkling her forehead and wincing at the pain the action must bring. "Let go of what?"

"Cat. Like Lady Catelyn."

She only frowns. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"Look, Arya, you don't have to pretend around me," Gendry snaps, his patience worn thin. "You're safe here; Cersei's gone, Joffrey's dead. You don't have to worry for your life. Everyone thinks you're in Winterfell married to Ramsay Bolton. Littlefinger sent them a replacement."

"Bolton," Arya murmurs softly under her breath. She looks up then and her grey eyes flash with emotion, the anger on her face familiar like he remembers from years ago. "If what you say is true, have you any idea what you've done? You've sent them a replacement to be _slaughtered._ "

Gendry raises an eyebrow. "Slaughtered? She's only wed to him, not slaughtered."

"Do you know what the sigil of House Bolton is? Of course you don't," she sneers. "A flayed man. The bastard son you speak of is feared, disgusted, and shunned by all who have heard of him. If it's true, if he believes he is married to Arya Stark, then may the gods help that poor wretch."

He bites back a reply, something harsh, something to remind her that _she_ is Arya Stark, but instead he finds rage coursing through his veins. Varys knew. He knew Littlefinger was sending someone north. He turns his back on her, letting the metal bars slam shut behind him.

The first guard he sees, Gendry grabs him by the collar and slams him back against the stone wall. "If anybody touches her, I'll have them thrown off the castle into the Narrow Sea," he growls, letting red cloud his vision, letting irrational anger make him nothing better than a stupid bastard again.

By the time he steps out of the dungeons, blinking back blinding sunlight, Gendry's anger has simmered down into hurt as well as disappointment — at himself. He never asked; he never desired to find out. Once Varys told him it wasn't Arya, Gendry had put the matter out of his mind and done nothing more. He hadn't even bothered to learn what the Bolton sigil was and he was the bloody king.

The guard outside Varys's chamber bows and Gendry throws the door open, barging in without so much as a greeting. Varys, his short fingers holding a long feather quill, looks up in surprise.

"Who the fuck did you send?" Gendry demands, fury bringing color into his cheeks, lending his voice volume.

Varys looks confused, managing to keep his calm even as Gendry's fists clench and his jaw tightens. "What do you mean?"

"To marry the Bolton bastard," he spits through his teeth. "What poor girl did you send to be sacrificed in Arya's name?"

"Does it matter? What's done is done, Your Grace," Varys answers, standing in one motion and smoothly shutting the door, sliding the lock.

"It matters to me. The Boltons… have you any idea of the reputation Ramsay carries?"

"You realize we didn't really send them Arya, don't you? Particularly since she's currently locked in our dungeons for trying to kill you."

"Then who?"

Varys hesitates, the quill still clutched between his fingers, before he finally tells him, "Jeyne Poole. She was Sansa Stark's closest confidante, brown hair and noble birth, accent northern enough to pass for the Stark girl. Littlefinger kept her in his brothels before he sent her to the Dreadfort."

Gendry's nostrils flare. He leans close to Varys, his voice low enough to be a whisper, "Send out our ravens. Send them to the Eyrie and the Winterfell, send them to Riverrun and the Night's Watch. I want everyone to know."

"Know what, Your Grace?"

"That we have the real Arya Stark. That we're coming for Jeyne Poole."

Varys's eyes narrow. "Have you any idea what that would do?"

"Lose us our closest northern allies; possibly reveal us to be liars and traitors. Almost certainly make her a target and a liability. Spread some sort of bitterness among our soldiers and the houses who have lent us these soldiers, those chiefly being the Lannisters and the Tyrells."

"I'm glad you've been paying attention during your lessons," Varys takes a step back and returns to his seat. The quill vanishes into one of his long sleeves. "Your Grace, even you cannot be ignorant to take such a step without realizing its far reaching consequences."

"Do you know what I think?" Gendry asks and Varys sighs, turning away to look out of his window. Gendry continues, "I think Littlefinger tried to appease the Boltons with Arya and her position of inheriting Winterfell. I think he never really expected her to return. And I think he didn’t realize that once she _did_ return, it would be open defiance. Her brother's bannermen would bring their loyalty to wherever she is — which is the South now — and refuse to tolerate the man who turned against Robb Stark at his nuncle's wedding. She is the last remaining Stark and that means more than Littlefinger can imagine. Varys, if I know anything, I know that the North remembers."

"I'm impressed, Your Grace," Varys hedges, returning his gaze to Gendry with a new look on his face, something nearly close to respect. "But you must understand, declaring we have Arya Stark is akin to declaring war against the North, of which Bolton is the warden."

"Don't just declare that we have her," a smile flickers on Gendry's lips. "Declare that we are to be married."

…

When Cat comes to, her head is pounding and her entire body aches. She takes a moment to gather her situation, remembering only the long gulps the guards had given her of water tainted with milk of the poppy. Slowly, Cat opens one eye. True to the king's word, the men had stopped their _interrogation_ , even providing her with decent food and fresh clothing from that day forth. She has no idea how much time has passed since then.

As far as Cat can tell, she is on a bed – a bed with a proper mattress – in a chamber lit generously with lamps. All of them are out of her reach. Her left hand is in manacles, chained to the foot of the bed. Cat pulls on the restraints and realizes there is no way to get out of them unless she breaks either her own wrist or the wooden leg of the bed. She sits up, joints sending stings of pain through her body, and stretches her legs out before her. The action opens a cut on her stomach and she gasps as fresh blood oozes from the wound onto a clean tunic she has never seen before. She even notices there is ointment over her other bruises.

The door opens a moment later and a stunning woman walks in, dark hair and dark eyes, in a low-fitted gown that shows the half-curves of her breasts with clarity. She stops just short of the bed and studies Cat with one eyebrow raised. Arya stares back, tight lipped.

"My lady, I have come to assist you. I am Taena Merryweather," she bows. Her accent, Cat recognizes, is distinctly from one of the Free Cities, though she cannot place which exactly. "Can I come closer?"

"You can," Arya answers cautiously. "Though I should warn you that if you do, I won't hold back from smashing your face in with my fists."

Taena swallows audibly. "Lady Arya—"

"Does Gendry have you believing that crock of shit as well?" Cat laughs, throwing back her head. She pulls on the chain and when it snaps loudly, Taena flinches. "I'm not Arya."

"His Grace is surely not mistaken. He recognizes you and he claims you are hiding your identity to avoid conflict with the North."

"The North," she smiles, showing all her teeth, "can go fuck itself."

Taena's face sours. She turns and walks out of the chambers, murmuring something about _undeserving queens._ The phrase means nothing to Cat and she returns her attention to her handcuffs, wondering if she could try picking it somehow. Nothing is within her reach to try and a few moments later, she is distracted by the sound of footsteps again. She sighs, wondering if they would ever leave her alone. It is the king.

"What do you want from me?" she snaps, tolerance running low, disappointment at her failed assignment mixing with the general tumultuous confusion she was experiencing since she had arrived in King's Landing. Of course she should have just killed him when she had the chance and returned to Braavos by now, but that chance has passed now, leaving her with consequences.

Gendry stares at her for a long moment before sighing, "Taena refuses to attend to you if you continue to be rude and threaten her." He shuts the door and moves to the edge of the bed to sit.

Cat considers whether she could attack him without the chain stopping her short and decides against trying. Much as she ignores physical pain, she would rather not return to the dungeons for misjudging the range of her fetters. "Just as well. I don't want to be attended to."

"You'll need someone, a handmaid at the least, to dress you and tend to your recovering wounds, to bathe you and run your errands."

"What errands?" Cat sneers. "Are you expecting me to send a maid to slit your throat for me?"

"Are you still talking about that ridiculous task?" he asks in a tight voice.

"Is death a jape to Your Grace?"

He turns to her so both his knees are on the mattress, close enough now so Cat thinks she can wrap her hands around his throat. But he reaches up and touches her cheekbone with a finger, a gentle soft touch that doesn't so much as sting her black eye let alone hurt it, and she abruptly loses her murderous train of thought. His finger trails down to the corner of her lips and Cat finds herself parting them involuntarily.

"I thought you were dead," he murmurs lightly. "But then you return and try to kill me. No, death is not a jape. These days it seems like life is the jape."

She watches his pupils widen, darkening his vivid blue eyes, and his head dips lower closer to her.

Cat pulls away the slightest bit, not wanting to lose the warmth of his touch but needing to think clearly. He muddles her thoughts. _I am a Faceless Man,_ she thinks with conviction, though her resolve weakens every second she continues to look into Gendry's eyes. "I have an assignment," she tells him. "It's you."

"I know," he breathes, his hand cradling her cheek. It is smoother than she had imagined – _had she imagined it before? Why had she imagined it?_ "But I don't think you can do it, Arya. I don't think you can kill me. After saving my life on the King's Road, helping us escape from Harrenhall, accompanying me to the smithy with the Brotherhood at Acorn Hall; you won't let all of that time mean nothing."

She thinks of a dress with acorns, dirty and ripped, and she can remember being pinned under a warm body, being tickled by warm fingers. "What are you doing to me?" she tries to sound angry, indignant, but she hardly manages to coax the sentence out of her throat. "I don't know what Acorn Hall is but I remember it. I remember a smithy with the floor covered in soot and I remember someone singing."

"My featherbed is deep and soft and there I'll lay you down," his voice lilts up, "I'll dress you all in yellow silk and on your head a crown," he sings softly, his voice cracking on the last syllable. Gendry leans close once more, lips hovering just above hers.

She wants to hit him or push him away, but the words capture her and Cat can't help but whisper back, the song returning to her like an echo in a cave, "I'll wear a gown of golden leaves and bind my hair with grass. But you can be my forest love and me your forest lass."

Gendry kisses her then, pulling her lithe form closer with his free hand on the small of her back. Her mouth opens of its own accord and his tongue is heavy, drawing heat into her belly and making her gasp when his hand slips under her tunic. Her own hands tremble as they wrap around his broad shoulders in lust instead of wrath, head spinning, one knotting into his shaggy black hair. The shackles rattle loudly, chain pulled taut to its limit.

Annoyed, she yanks at her wrist. When it doesn't give, she turns her face away from Gendry to tug at the chain more insistently. The moment is enough for her to take a breath and for Gendry's mouth to find its way down and suck at the hollow of her throat and she arches her back into the touch, rocking her hips in need despite the restraints. He palms her breast roughly and she bites her lip to keep from moaning. Her recovering body complains about her yearning, about his weight on her, and ignores it.

He groans and mumbles, "Fuck, Arya, I want you."

She pulls away sharply at the name, the chained hand splayed at his chest keeping distance between them. He looks up at her, lips slick and eyes dark, breathing hard just like her. He blinks and clears his throat, running his fingers through his tousled hair. He gets off the bed, adjusting his breeches and lowering his tunic to hide the visible outline of his cock.

"I'm sorry," he says with formality. "I didn't – I haven't…" he never finishes the sentence, simply shaking his head.

When Cat looks at him this time, her normal façade is gone. She looks vulnerable, rubbing a hand over her neck where his stubble had scratched her. "I don't remember anything," she says in a small voice. "I don't remember who I am or who you are. I only know the Many-Faced God, the House of Black and White, and Needle."

"Needle?" Gendry asks. "Who's Needle?"

"My sword. I want my sword."

He looks skeptical. "You want me to give you a sword when you threatened to kill me not five minutes ago?"

"You're doubting me when I could have killed you and instead kissed you not two minutes ago?" she retorts.

"Arya, I don't want to lie to you or keep any secrets," he begins, but she quickly cuts him off.

"Stop calling me that."

He glares at her for a moment. "As m'lady commands," he says and she clenches her jaw together at his stubbornness. "As I was saying, I don't want to keep any secrets from you. I _know_ you're my Ar – that you're the girl I remember and you insisting otherwise isn't going to change anything. I've already announced it to the Royal Court and to the other realms – not the whole thing, you understand – but it feels strange to keep this from you as well. And despite what my Hand and Varys say, I want to tell you. I want you to trust me."

"Then get on with it and tell me," she mutters, sick of his stammering, slumping against the board of the bed and yanking at her chain. She knows it won't do any good but she wants to avoid looking at his face. It would only make her want to fuck him or murder him.

"I'm to wed you in a few days."

When Cat fixes him with an astonished look, he licks his lips nervously and shifts feet. "Wed me?" she demands, narrowing her eyes and sitting up. "What the fuck do you mean by _wed me_?"

"It means you'll be my wife and the Queen of Westeros."

Her mouth opens and her jaw works up and down without speaking like a caricature. At last, she chokes out, "Queen? Wife?"

"I'm not sure which is more objectionable to you," he confesses, gaze flicking up from the floor to finally look at her.

Cat leaps forward in his direction from the mattress, forgetting the chain in her fury until it snaps against her arm and she hisses in pain. Gendry takes a step forward, concern etched on his features, then freezes in his tracks when she stares at him with hard eyes.

Before he can say anything, a knock on the door interrupts them. He sighs and calls, "Enter."

A guard opens the door and steps inside. He glances from Gendry to Cat and back to the king, telling him, "Your Grace, you are needed in the Rookery."

"What for?" Gendry questions in an authoritative voice, clasping both hands behind his back and straightening his spine. Cat raises an eyebrow, noticing how quickly he transitions from boy to king.

The guard hesitates, again his eyes skimming toward Cat. "It's an extremely sensitive and important matter, Your Grace. Both Lord Martyn and Lard Varys wait for you there. You should come immediately."

"Do you know what this matter is?" Gendry asks.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Gendry purposefully nods at Cat when he says, "Then you can say it in front of both me and my betrothed."

She knows he's only doing it to make her trust him more and the thought irks her. But she has to admit, she's rather curious. The House of Black and White had taught her to read faces and the guard's looks just about ready to burst with tension and secrecy.

"Your… Your Grace, we've received a raven," the guard squints, looking uncomfortable.

"From?" Gendry encourages.

"From the Vale of Arryn."

"Petyr Baelish?" Gendry asks. He takes a step forward. "Lysa Tully?"

Cat blinks when the king says the second name, the words catching her attention. _Tully… Tully…_ does she know it? Has she heard it before?

The guard seems reluctant to divulge the name, but under Gendry's insistence, he says, "Your Grace, the raven is from someone claiming to be Sansa."

"Sansa," Cat repeats automatically, unaware she has said it out loud.

Gendry's head snaps up when he hears her voice. "Dismissed," he barks at the guard. "Close the door behind you! Arya, what is it? Are you okay?"

Cat is vaguely aware of the door being shut and Gendry's hands on her shoulders, trying to get her to look at him as she mouths the name over and over again. "Sansa. Sansa. Sansa," she looks up at Gendry with wet eyes, a dam as high as the Wall suddenly dismantling and memories bursting forth from it.

Red hair and pale blue eyes, lemon cakes and stories of lovers. She recalls slipping under the covers and whispering that she'd had a nightmare, gentle long fingers in her hair, a soothing voice as soft as rose petals. A white wolf who curtsied like a proper lady.

"Are you okay?" Gendry repeats and the world slips back into focus in an instant. "You look unwell."

Aware of his nearness and the tears spilling over her cheeks, a smile breaks out over Arya's face. "I remember her – Sansa Stark, my sister."


	3. Don't Go

They put her in a gown. A bloody _gown_. This, Arya finds, is their most unforgivable offense. Even more than keeping her in the handcuffs, they keep her in a frilly ridiculous gown of Dornish silk. Taena doesn't let her wear breeches and a tunic, and a seamstress had been in earlier to measure Arya's stomach and her breasts, her hips and neck.

A serving girl runs her a bath and afterwards, helps Arya into the freshly sewn gown under Taena's watchful gaze. The girl scampers about quietly and when Arya asks her name, her eyes widen and she leaves. Arya doesn't know if it's because of her reputation or if the girl is simply shy. Either way, it leaves her lonely.

Taena doesn't make much conversation either. She secures her wrist back in the shackles, adding, "I apologize for the discomfort, my lady."

Arya refrains from a snide response when Taena walks out. In exchange for cooperating, Gendry had agreed to let her keep Needle. It is her comfort in the long hours she spends alone in her chambers as she earns the trust of the castle.

It's difficult to return back into her own mind. Some things crash down like a wave: she knows every cobbled street of Winterfell, Mikken's smithy, the corners of the castle, every tree in the godswood. Other things return slowly like the tide, like collecting flowers for her father. She recalls first his somber grey eyes lighting up at the gift, the lines outside his eyelids getting deeper, the slow upward curve of his lips, and _finally_ , his voice low and gravelly when he thanked her.

Her head is full of thoughts, of memories that she can't quite place in the right order. They spiral around in her mind like rain and howling winds without pausing, some that she recognizes, others she does not. Had she lost Nymeria before Lady was executed or after? Why did she lose the direwolf at all? Joffrey? She remembers Jon Snow and the skinny sword he had given her that she keeps under her mattress. She remembers Bran teaching her to climb up to the towers. She does not remember his face, only his childish voice giggling and calling encouragements up to her.

Sometimes, she catches herself thinking she is Cat of the Canals, the Faceless Braavosi.

 _Cat, like Lady Catelyn_ , Gendy had told her.

Sansa will be in King's Landing soon. The idea of seeing her sister again fills her with excitement and a smidge of nostalgia. She would look at Arya's face, at her black eye and split lip, and shake her head in disappointment.

Even as she is thinking, she becomes aware of a noise at the side of the tower and the hair on the back of her neck prickles. Someone is at her window. When she turns, a man is perched at the ledge precariously.

"Jaqen," she breathes, recognizing immediately his hooked noise and black hair. She can recall a time when his hair had been red and white, his face handsome. She sits up on the bed and the chain on her wrist rattles. "What are you doing here?"

"A girl did not finish her task," he says quietly without moving from his place. His silhouette contrasts with the brightness of the sun outside. "She made a vow to the Red God and he waits for his gift eagerly."

Arya's pulse quickens, her muscles tense. She wishes more than anything her hand was unchained. "I… I'm not Faceless anymore, I think. I'm Arya Stark. I can't kill him."

"Valar Morghulis," Jaqen says.

"Yes, they must. But not this one, not yet," she hisses, getting off the bed, prepared to defend if he leaps at her.

"A name has been said," he replies and she notes that his voice has not changed. It's still smooth and seductive.

"And another will take its place. You tell them that, the other Faceless Men, the House of Black and White, anybody who comes with their swords drawn and their poison slathered arrowheads, with their assassins strong and nimble alike. You tell them that when they send someone here to kill King Gendry Baratheon, they will have to face Arya Stark first – and I will neither forget nor forgive."

"A girl is playing with the will of the Gods," Jaqen lifts his lips in something akin to a sneer or a smile, Arya cannot tell which on his shadowed face. "A man must remind this girl of duty."

Arya reaches under her sheets to find Needle's handle, her fingers curling around the steel. She pulls out the sword in a single swift movement and points it out toward him. Jaqen is too far for her to attack but the message is clear. "Leave, Jaqen. I wish you no harm but I will not hesitate to attack if I perceive you to be a threat to me or Gendry."

"A man is not here to do a girl's task. He is only here to watch her complete it."

As Arya watches, he turns and nimbly leaps off the edge of the tower. She wants to run forward and see him land, see how he manages such a feat so far from the ground, but her chain stops her short and she growls in frustration. She clutches Needle for the rest of the day through, and when Gendry comes to see her later after sundown, she insists he stay with her.

"That wouldn't be proper," he says flatly.

"Gendry, please."

He mistakes her words and answers, "I can't spend the night with my betrothed. We aren't wed yet and- I- you don't- we're-"

"I'm serious," she snaps, cutting his stammers short. "Sleep with me on this massive bed you've so generously provided or sleep with someone else for all I care, but please don't be alone tonight."

He frowns and shivers, his eyes flicking to the open window. He heads toward it and closes the latch, asking, "Why? What is it?"

She swallows, feeling heat rise up in her cheeks. "Nothing. A king is a common target."

"I have guards," he says cautiously.

"Guards that did nothing when I nearly killed you," Arya narrows her eyes.

"Is that what you're worried about? That they'll send someone else after me since you failed to do your job?" he asks, his eyes softening. He laughs abruptly, "Maybe if I'm lucky, my next assailant will fall in love with me as well."

"I don't love you, stupid," Arya grumbles.

Gendry shrugs but the smile on his face is affectionate. "Would you really not care if I slept with someone else?"

"Why? Are you planning to?" she tugs at her handcuffed hands, staring at him. "You know, I could still kill you chained to this corner of the bed."

"Nah, you'd miss me too much."

She rolls her eyes, knowing that any minute now he would leave for his own chambers. It was their usual ritual. He would make small talk, shuffle his feet, bid her good night and leave. "How was your day, Your Grace?"

"Varys rebuked me for something I said wrong to a lesser Lord at the small council, Swyft tripped over his own feet, arrangements were made for Sansa and Harrold's ship to arrive straight to the port by the castle – did you know I had a sister in the Vale? – and we finally received a raven from Winterfell."

Arya sits up eagerly. "Do they still have Jeyne?"

"It wasn't the Boltons who sent us the raven," Gendry frowns and runs a hand over his jaw. He comes around to her side of the bed and sits down beside her. She holds back a victory smile and shifts to face him as he adds, "It was Stannis. He's won against the Boltons; he claims both father and bastard are slain and that the girl he believed to be Arya is at the Wall with Theon Greyjoy. We've received no confirmation from the Wall of this, but if all he says is true then we may not be dealing with a war against the north, it'll be a war against my nuncle."

"I did not know Theon was alive," she muses. "What about the other northern Houses? Do they support Stannis or you?"

Gendry heaves a long sigh. "It's difficult to tell. The Freys still have Riverrun but we've heard rumors of Brynden preparing to take back the castle and rescue his brother from Casterly Rock. If so, we'll have Tully support from the Riverlands and possibly even the Western lands, particularly now that we have you and Sansa. The rest of the northern houses have not responded yet. Varys thinks it's because of the impending threat of the Others."

"You look tired," Arya murmurs abruptly. He would likely ramble on for hours if she didn't distract him, only making him more anxious and cross with politics and his position.

"Being king is tiring work. You'll know soon enough, my queen," he teases, some of the tension easing off his face as he turns to look at her. He presses a small kiss to her lips and begins to stand, but Arya grabs his wrist with her free hand and yanks him back on the bed. "What're you-"

Arya returns his kiss with her own, her lips fierce against him, almost angry. She comes up for air sooner than she wants to. He looks dumbfounded.

"Please. Don't go."

"Can't stay. There's a guard outside the door," Gendry mumbles.

"Good, I won't have to keep an eye out for any Faceless Men," she whispers with her hands at the hem of his tunic to pull him closer. Arya knows it's the only way to keep him with her. He still isn't convinced enough to undo her shackles – she still isn't convinced she can be trusted with them off – but she's sure this is the only argument to ensure he spends more time around her than around his incompetent guards.

She brings him near to kiss him again, delving her tongue past his lips and he squeaks a tiny nervous sound in his throat. Arya finds it endearing. Gendry seems stunned out of any movement so Arya takes one of his hands and presses it to her breast, a familiar ache spreading between her legs. And when his lips finally answer in response, she gasps at his enthusiasm pushing her back into the mattress.

It takes Gendry's fingers only a few clumsy tries before he finds the end of her ridiculously long gown pooling at her knees, and then his thumb is running up her thighs.

"I guess there _is_ an advantage to gowns," she murmurs against his skin and they both lapse into indulgent laughing, cut short when his palm reaches her through her smallclothes. She bites down into the crook of his neck and he hisses – in pain or pleasure, she's unsure but she doesn't care to find out, canting her hips up at his touch.

Pleasure spikes through Arya's tense body, wrenching a groan garbled with his name from her. Gendry's lips return back to her mouth, salty and hot. He doesn't stop her when she unlaces the front of his breeches, only licks down her jaw, down to nibble on the sharp bones of her neck.

"Gendry," she whines in needy anticipation.

He pulls away to ask, "Should I..?"

"Yes, stupid," she growls, reaching both hands up to grab at his collar.

He eases into her wet heat slowly, his intense blue eyes peering at her for any reaction. She only nods and he moves his hips, every stroke careful and concentrated until it breaks down into nothing more than sharp inhales and fingers twined together, the sound of her shackles rattling like the gossiping whispers of an audience.

Then Arya's grey eyes fly open and her voice is breathless when she whispers, "Gendry, you can't – not inside me!" And Gendry understands at the last moment, pulling out just in time to spill his seed on the sheets, collapsing beside her in an undignified heap.

Arya sighs into the still night air, spent but comfortable. For once, she finds herself at a loss for words. "That was nice."

The tips of Gendry's ears are red when he looks at her. "Nice?"

She inches over to lie across his chest, "You know what I mean."

And he smiles, "I do."

She leans on an elbow and stares at him, willing him to understand. "Gendry, _please_ be careful when you're away from me." She considers bringing up Jaqen, unsure if Gendry would remember the Lorathi criminal from the King's Road.

Gendry merely sighs and says, "You're worrying needlessly; nothing will happen," and wraps his arms around her.

She falls asleep in his grip, faster than she has in what seems like decades.

But when she dreams, it is of a wolf running on all fours and the king chases her with a laugh on his lips and she is unworried until his face falls off to reveal Jaqen and she finds that her legs suddenly no longer work.

…

Gendry wakes curled around a warm form and hair in his face. Arya's hair. He leans away, their bodies pressed together under the sheets, and takes a deep breath in the chill of the morning air. His attention is brought back to Arya as a tremor runs through her body. She whimpers a tiny sound, both of her brows drawn together, breathing labored. The chain around her wrist scrapes against the wooden bed as she shivers again.

"Arya?" he murmurs softly, the arm wrapped around her body coming around to hold her closer. Her hand snatches his and holds it tightly, small fingers squeezing with extraordinary strength so he nearly gasps. She pulls the hand closer to her chest, the creases on her face evening out.

Her eyes flutter open and she shifts against him. "Gendry?" she whispers.

He smiles. He had been irrationally afraid she wouldn't recognize him. "What's wrong? Nightmare?"

"I – I think so. No, not a nightmare, a memory. They executed my father on the steps of the Sept with his own sword," Arya's eyes harden and she pulls out of Gendry's embrace, leaving him suddenly cold and bereft.

He sits up as well. "I need to go. It's morning."

She just shrugs. "Be careful, okay? I was serious about last night's warning; it wasn't just a ruse to get you in bed."

"You don't need a ruse," Gendry grins and presses a kiss to her forehead.

He steps out of the room and quickly looks toward the guard stationed outside Arya's door, but the man only bows stony-faced. Relived, Gendry makes his way to his own chambers. He fares much worse fate inside where Varys and Steffan wait for him.

"Ah, finally the king graces us with his presence. Have a good night, Your Grace?" Varys smirks and Gendry's feels a blush rising in his cheeks.

"I, uh, Arya was worried. She thought another Faceless Man might come to finish her job."

"And you stayed to console your bride-to-be, of course," Varys replies and Steffan poorly disguises a guffaw as a cough.

Gendry glares at him. "Run me a bath," he snaps and Steffan's eyebrows shoot up in consternation. He takes off quickly. Gendry turns back to Varys. "Did I miss anything?"

"Yes, actually. I was just about to send Swyft to get you. Small Council meets within the hour. Lord Commander has sent us a raven."

"Jon Snow?"

"Yes, Jon Snow. He confirms he has Jeyne and that there's no need for us to march North to reclaim her. He does ask help for the Night's Watch." Varys lowers his voice and Gendry automatically leans closer, knowing the next bit would be confidential. "Jon wrote in a second unofficial raven meant only for your eyes that he supports Stannis's claim to the throne after Stannis obliged certain promises, but if we really have Arya Stark, he would reconsider. He wants to know if we have Sansa as well."

"We should let him know we do," Gendry nods. "We will anyway. Should we send him the help he asks for?"

"It would be wiser to keep our soldiers in King's Landing. Surely you haven't forgotten Dorne's fickle nature and their daughter whose death falls upon your father's shoulders. If Danaerys crosses the Narrow Sea, the South would almost certainly support her claim to the Iron Throne."

"She can have the fucking thing," Gendry mutters, rubbing a hand across his face, wishing he was curled up in bed beside Arya. "What about her dragons?"

"What about them?" Varys asks.

"If she has dragons, none of our armies will matter."

Before Varys can answer, Steffan returns with a bow, announcing that the king's bath was prepared and Varys simply says, "We'll reconvene at the Council."

Feeling slightly more relaxed after his bath, Gendry dons his cape and crown and is trailed by his usual entourage of Kingsguard and squires to the meeting of the Small Council. Martyn Lannister, Randyll Tarly, and Orton Merryweather are already deep in discussion when he enters the chambers, barely stopping to acknowledge his entrance. Pycelle dozes quietly in his corner. Varys and Nymeria Sand sit across from each other with their hands crossed.

Gendry is painfully aware how small and inept his council really is. He has no head for his Kingsguard after Jamie Lannister's sudden departure and no Master of Ships. He isn't sure how far he trusts any of them, certain they don't trust him at all. Tarly had blatantly referred to Gendry as a _green boy_ before.

"Martyn," Varys sharply interrupts the ongoing conversation, "would you like to tell His Grace what's so urgent that you cannot stop to inform him of the matter?"

With a sour expression, Martyn holds out the piece of parchment in Gendry's direction. "Jon Snow's giving Jeyne Poole sanctuary at the Wall. He wants more men to fight the Others."

Merryweather snorts, "The Others are only a myth."

Gendry thinks of Lady Stoneheart, of a woman come back to life after her throat had been slashed open, and he thinks that the Others may not be so hard to believe after such a sight. "You're suggesting the Lord Commander is lying?" Gendry asks and Merryweather lapses into sullen silence.

"We have evidence that the Lord Commander is siding with Stannis Baratheon. Perhaps it _is_ a lie, a ploy to weaken our defenses," Tarly suggests.

"Isn't your youngest son at the Wall?" Varys asks.

"Irrelevant," Tarly waves a hand.

"What do you think? You speak on behalf of our allies in the South," Gendry turns to look directly at Nymeria, stressing the word _allies_. "As the voice of Doran Martell, what is your stance on the Others?"

She looks taken aback for a moment, only a small moment. Her intense dark eyes skim over the room before she says in a clear Essosi cadence, "I have never seen winter, Your Grace. Neither has any other man sitting here. We do not know what dangers snow brings."

"The bastard or the ice?" Tarly guffaws.

"Let Lady Nymeria finishing speaking!" Gendry snarls in impulsive ire, sick of these men treating him like a boy. He remembers too late he _is_ a boy, but continues. "You will treat her with the same respect as any other member of this council, Lord Tarly."

Tarly's mouth opens angrily but Gendry returns his gaze to the Dornishwoman. "Go on, my lady. I apologize on Tarly's behalf."

"I think the threat should be assessed personally before a decision can be made. We must understand that if the Lord Commander is siding with Stannis, it is because the crown has repeatedly refused to answer his pleas," she answers and several voices immediately begin speaking after her.

Gendry's foul mood grows with each rebuttal his Council makes, Tarly and Merryweather firmly against taking action, Lannister strongly for, Sand and Varys relatively neutral. Pycelle does not wake, snoring contentedly.

Gendry yearns for his forge more than ever. Steel never argued, no matter how hard he hit it.

Finally, realizing the brunt of the decision came down to him – _I am the king, after all_ – Gendry proclaims, "Send back a raven. Ask him how many men he asks for, how many swords. Ask how we know for sure he will not betray us. Dismissed."

The men look mostly unsatisfied as they rise from their seats, Pycelle with a surprised splutter.

"Your Grace, when is the wedding?" Lannister asks with a smirk.

Gendry's hands form into fists under the table. He knows they must think lowly of him to announce his wedding to an assassin, even if she is Arya Stark. More than once, Martyn Lannister had poked fun of the fact that Arya is still handcuffed despite her proven identity. But now Gendry forces himself to smile with grace and answer, "As soon as Sansa Stark ship arrives in King's Landing in a few days."

Varys seems to approve of the answer, nodding perceptibly as he ushers the men out of the chambers until only Nymeria Sand remains, seated and composed as ever. He gazes at her impassively but she doesn't speak, seemingly studying him. Varys had warned Gendry that Lady Nym kept daggers hidden in places he could not even think of. Arya's advice to be careful repeats in his ears. _A king is a common target._ How gladly he would exchange his crown for a moment's freedom. Sighing, he asks, "My Lady, can I help you?"

"You may have the blood of the stag, but you are not your father," she says, head cocked to the side.

Gendry feels heat rising to his cheeks. "My Lady, I – I don't understand—"

"Was it because he called Jon Snow a bastard?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tarly. You lost your anger when Tarly spoke of Jon Snow's status. Was it because he used the word _bastard_ to describe him, Your Grace?" Her narrowed eyes and bent posture reminds Gendry that she is a Sand Snake, a bastard herself. Lying to her would be a shame.

Gendry clenches his teeth together, exhaling from his nose before he admits, "Yes."

Nymeria looks curious before sitting back, apparently satisfied. "May I meet Lady Arya? I've heard much about these Starks." Her face breaks into a smile. "Word reached Dorne that she had named her direwolf Nymeria as well."

He hesitates for a moment but can see no harm. If anything, it would alleviate the boredom Arya complains of. He answers, "It is not my decision. Ask Arya if she would speak with you herself. Lady Taena can show you to her chambers."

Nymeria nods and stands to her full height. "King Gendry," she says softly. "Do not let them do to you what they did to your father. Remember your father as he was when he loved Lyanna Stark, not as he was after he lost her."

But of course, he doesn't remember his father at all.

He has only the stag's angry blood, nothing more.


	4. Nothing Common

The day Sansa's ship arrives at the port beside the castle is chilly but dappled with sunlight. It seems half of King's Landing has turned out to see the Stark daughters. Gendry stands by Arya and she looks every bit the queen she will be soon in a slate colored gown of Myrish lace that emphasizes the steel of her eyes. Her spine is straight, jaw set, and her hair is held back in the northern style with braids falling down her back. Gendry has no idea how Taena would have managed such a feat since Arya's own hair is chopped down in uneven strokes.

For the first time in weeks, Arya has no handcuffs chaining her. If Gendry squints, he can just make out a ring of red around her wrists where the metal had chafed through, though she never complains about it. But then, she wouldn't even if it pained her, would she?

Behind her, Nymeria Sand stands at attention. Since their last council meeting, Nymeria and Arya had become close friends and spent a great deal of time together. Gendry would be jealous but he still has Arya's nights after his long exhausting days surrounded by lords and duty, and it is more than he deserves after keeping her chained.

As soon as the ship appears on the horizon, a cheer goes up amongst the common folks standing by the harbor. A wind starts up, at first a gentle salty breeze that builds into howling between the castle ramparts, as though nature itself anticipates the reunion of the Stark sisters. White sails billow like clouds, bring the ship closer quickly.

Gendry watches Arya, her intense features turned firmly toward the sea, hair blowing into her unblinking eyes, but he doesn't miss the way her hands clench behind her back or the slight flaring of her nostrils when the crowd surges forward during the docking of the ship.

The first person to step off the ramp from the ship is a broad shouldered blond. Harrold Hardying, Gendry figures. The blond turns back and holds out his hand, and soon following him down the wooden block is a beautiful red-haired woman tall woman with skin of ivory and eyes like she had swallowed the sky itself. Beside him, Arya inhales sharply.

Sansa Stark's lovely blue eyes search the gathered faces as she walks, skipping completely over Gendry and finally coming to rest on Arya. Her reddened lips break into a smile. Unable to stay still any longer, Arya starts forward in quick long strides, Nymeria shadowing her every step closely. Gendry hesitates for a moment before taking off after her.

"Arya," Gendry starts, unsure what protocol is – unsure if there _is_ any protocol between sisters but almost certain there is between nobles. But Nymeria looks back at him and shakes her head and Gendry falls silent, lagging farther behind as she increases speed.

Harrold steps off to a side as Arya nears and the sisters embrace. Gendry distinctly sees Sansa's lips moving but her whisper is too soft to hear and the wind carries away any sound Arya may have made facing away from him. Even Nymeria leaves distance between the sisters.

When they pull away, arms still linked, Sansa glances at Gendry curiously. He follows Varys's instructions, bowing and kissing her hand, and includes the blond when he says, "Welcome to King's Landing, Lady Sansa and Lord Harrold. It is our pleasure to guest the true heirs of Winterfell and the Vale, and to extend our hospitality to their bannermen, crew, and vassals."

Harrold returns the bow and Sansa curtsies. "It is our pleasure to accept the invitation and join Your Grace and Lady Arya-" Sansa's voice cracks "-for your wedding."

Gendry nods and Harrold takes his place by Sansa's side again. They start in the direction of the castle, both the Gold Cloaks and the Kingsguard surrounding them closely. Gendry has been informed in detail what happened last time the royal family came to a port. But it seems the people are delighted by Sansa and Arya as they never were for Cersei or Joffrey. They applaud and call out as the sisters pass by, some throwing flowers at their feet. It takes Gendry a few moments to realize some of the cheering is directed to him as well and a sudden swell of pride runs through him.

Once within the walls of the castle, the small feast set up in Sansa's return begins near immediately. Bread and salt, not that it had mattered to Robb Stark. Gendry's stomach is knotted in apprehension and he declines to eat. A few moments later, Varys gestures to him from a corner. Gendry steps behind one of the large curtained columns in the hall.

Varys looks as satisfied as a cat with a canary feather in his maws. "We received our first raven from allies in the North. The Mormonts."

Gendry feels a grin spread over his face. He remembers something about bears and exiled knights, but the important thing is _allies_. "Are they very strong? How many soldiers? Will they fight against other northernmen, if it comes to a war?"

"They're highly influential. Well respected. One of the Mormonts served in Robb Stark's guard and paid with her life for it during the Red Wedding. Another, rumor has it, serves for Asha Greyjoy. The island itself has hailed in the favor of a Stark sitting on the throne of Winterfell. They were sure to add in their letter that their knee is not bent to a Baratheon but to a Stark."

Gendry looks at Arya sitting by her sister, their heads close together. It was almost like no one else in the hall existed, not the noise and not the people and not the food. Only each other. Gendry has never seen Arya look quite so… peculiar. Vulnerable, he might suppose, but that isn't the right word. She seems stronger with Sansa.

"We should assure them on the Stark matter then," Gendry finally agrees.

Varys nods and tells Gendry, "Did you greet your half-sister yet?"

"My sis – Mya? Where?"

"Behind Sansa. She is Robert's eldest natural child. If Westeros followed any customs but our own, she would wear the crown and not you."

Gendry stares at the woman with coal black hair and his own blue eyes, supping silently. In another life, she would be queen. Perhaps they would have grown up together. "She looks like me," Gendry murmurs.

Abruptly, Sansa and Arya rise from their seats. Someone cheers and the sound is picked up around the hall quickly. Sansa bows gracefully, her red hair shining in the flickering firelight, but Arya simply tugs at her sister's hand and they leave the hall together.

Gendry starts forward but Varys says, "Leave them be, Gendry. If they had wanted your company, they would have asked. We still have time until our small council meeting. Go speak with Harrold."

Another Lord raised in nobility who would undoubtedly make Gendry feel inferior. Sighing, Gendry does as told. Harrold, though a bit thick, turns out to be good company. They find common ground regarding swords – a matter Gendry knows plenty about from his days in the smithy. They speak of steel and blades until most of the hall has cleared away, until only a few people still remain in the hall, his footmen, Nymeria Sand.

Eventually, Steffan comes to Gendry and announces he is needed for the council meeting. Gendry excuses Harrold, who happily obliges, and he makes his way to the council room. Nymeria trails him diligently. Finally, he slows his pace and asks, "Lady Nymeria, is there a reason you follow my footsteps as close as a shadow?"

"Your Grace, Arya has asked me to stay with you," Nymeria answers immediately.

Gendry does not know when _Lady Arya_ had become just _Arya_. "Why?"

"She thinks I am better suited to protect you when she isn't by your side," she hesitates before she adds, "She wants me to join the Kingsguard because the others are too incompetent and because she cannot herself."

He considers. "Will you?"

"I do not know yet, Your Grace. I have sent ravens back to Dorne to take the advice of my sisters and my nuncle."

"Do you _want_ to?"

Nymeria stares at him with her intense dark eyes. "You are a good king; better than your father. But you'll excuse me if I harbor… certain _mistrusts_ against Baratheon blood."

Gendry sighs and continues walking with his face forward. He knows. He has heard it a hundred – a _thousand_ – times. The rape and murder of Elia Martell and her children. His father's reaction to the ordeal. The death of Oberyn Martell. The ordered assassination of Daenerys. The whoring and the drinking and the fighting. Marrying Cersei Lannister. He wonders if he'll ever escape his father's deeds.

By the time he walks into the council room, Arya is already sitting in a chair beside the head seat, her short choppy hair back. Gendry's eyebrows lift. He had invited her to join their council after her cuffs came off, but he hadn't expected her to attend thismeeting. He had thought she would still be with her sister.

When he takes his own seat, Arya reaches for his hand under the table and squeezes it gently. Gently, he knows, because he has felt the true magnitude of her strength before. "Sansa fell asleep," Arya murmurs. "It must have been a long journey. Her eyes were falling shut even as she talked."

He smiles and nods at Varys to begin.

"All preparations for the wedding have been prepared," Varys says. "The feast, as requested, is not too lavish, nor does it deplete our winter reserves. We have not asked the Tyrell's to share as we had in the past. However, there is a small issue. I'm afraid that we cannot follow any of the northern customs," Varys turns to Arya. "We know Starks have always been wed in a godswood for the Old Gods to witness, but we must take care not to offend the Warrior's Sons. You'll have to be wed in the Sept."

"I don't care about the customs," Arya murmurs, "but my father was killed outside the Sept."

"There is nowhere else we can hold the ceremony," Varys tries to sound consoling, Gendry knows. He's been spoken to in that particular tone of voice many times before.

Arya takes a deep breath and her brow furrows in compromise. "Then we'll be wed in the sept. But I want Sansa by my side with the maiden cloak."

"Ridiculous," Tarly interjects. "The ceremony would not do with a woman walking you down."

"It's a shame, then, that both my father and my elder brother have been killed by men you supported," Arya sneers. "Sansa is the only northerner left."

"I never supported the Freys!"

"As you never supported Tywin Lannister, I suppose," Arya replies sarcastically. "The swords may have been Bolton and the halls may have been Frey – but the ink on their death decree was Lannister."

"Surely the king will have his own objections-"

"Even if he does, it is not his decision to make," Arya interrupts and when Tarly turns to look at Gendry, he simply shrugs. She's right. It isn't his choice. She is to be queen and he has no intention of ruling her like a realm. He doesn’t think it's even possible.

Varys loudly clears his throat and points out, "Arya is right. Sansa is the only northerner in King's Landing. Surely there is some tradition to family."

"Such a tradition would be unorthodox," Maester Pycelle wheezes.

"I want Sansa to do it," Arya says forcefully. She meets Tarly straight in the eye in challenge – or threat – her hand curling into a fist as she asks, "Are you going to stop my sister from unfastening my cloak, Ser Tarly? Are you waiting for me to ask you to do it yourself?"

Arya and Tarly glare at each other and the silence is broken by Merryweather's hesitant voice, "Taena was given away by her mother in a Myrish custom. The practice is not as strange as we are led to believe and the wedding will only be attended by a select few."

Tarly lets out his breath in a huff. "Do as you desire. It is neither my wedding nor my reputation."

Because it is Arya, she does not leave it at that. She bares her teeth in a smile and cannot help one last barb, "I assure you, if it were your wedding and your reputation, no one would care."

And if Gendry has to hold back his own laugh, it is because he has never been happier at a council meeting surrounded by nobility then he is with Arya by him.

…

Sansa sleeps curled up on her side, like she had when they were children. Her long auburn curls glimmer in the dim light and Arya frowns when she finds traces of mud brown among the lower strands, a color closer to her own than to their mother. She doesn't know what it means but it angers her. It angers her like the dark circles under Sansa's eyes, like her voice hoarse and sad when she talked about Petyr Baelish, like the tears that fall down her cheekbones when she talks about their dead aunt and Littlefinger threatening to kill Robert Arryn if she behaves out of order.

She had finally shuddered asleep and Arya would not have left her side if she thought she control over her emotions. But anger boiled in the pit of her stomach and she thought if she stayed, she would burst into flame. So she pulled the covers over Sansa and attended the council meeting, where arrogant Tarly became the perfect target to take her frustrations out on.

Afterwards, she kissed Gendry good night, their only night apart in weeks, and returned to Sansa who still slept soundly.

Arya rubs her sore wrist as she slips under the covers beside Sansa, deciding that if anyone ever chained her again, she would carve their fucking hearts out. For the first time in years, a familiar list of names returns to her. Careful not to wake Sansa, Arya quietly mouths them to herself, striking off the ones already dead. At the end, she adds, "Petyr Baelish."

Only then does she close her eyes and allow herself to fall asleep.

She is shaken awake what feels like only minutes later by Sansa. Arya squints up at her beautiful sister, who's chattering about her wedding, and she can't help but think it is really Sansa again, happy excited Sansa who liked stories of lovers and feasts, songs and legends. Arya frowns as she sits up.

She's getting married before her sister?

Taena and Nym are already waiting for her, along with the handmaid whose name Arya never found out. Taena and Sansa talk in animated tones about her hair – well, the hair they wove into her own real hair – and her wedding gown, the rouge they would put on her cheeks and how they would paint her lips.

Arya nears Nym and asks lightly, "Gendry?"

"I can't go near him today," Nym says, shaking her head. "What with the wedding preparations, I doubt any woman could get near him until he's in the sept."

 _Surely nothing will happen today_ , she thinks, but she remembers Joffrey had been poisoned at his own wedding in full view of the crowd, not to mention her nuncle's wedding at the Twins.

She lets them fawn over her, Sansa helping her dress in an elaborate gown and her maiden cloak adorned with howling wolves and the branches of a weirwood, Taena braiding curls into her choppy hair seamlessly. Finally, Taena declares her job finished and leans away in satisfaction.

Nym and Taena leave the room and she can hear them still talking outside the door. It isn't until then that Sansa hands her the looking glass and Arya sees what she has become with kohl darkened eyes and blood red lips, and Sansa tells her she's the most beautiful bride she has ever seen and Arya blurts, "I'm getting married before you."

And this – after everything, _this_ is perhaps the most surprising thing.

Sansa meets her eyes in the reflection in the mirror and says, "Yes. Yes, of course," like she isn't surprised at all.

Arya shakes her head, a lump in her throat. "No, this is all wrong. Robb should've been here. Father and Mother should have been here. You should be wed before me. _Bran_ should be wed before me, even Rickon. I'm supposed to frustrate Mother trying to find me a groom I haven't scared away yet and go running into the godswood whenever anyone visited. This isn't how it's supposed to be."

"Arya, do you love him?" Sansa asks.

She thinks about that. "I don't know."

"And yet, when you told me all of it, about the King's Road and Braavos, returning to King's Landing and being in the dungeons, you never once said you didn't want to be his wife. You never doubted it. Isn't that love?" Arya doesn't know if it is or not. Sansa helps her stand and sets her hair one last time. Her sister chews on her lower lip and begins again, "Arya, about tonight..."

She trails off and Arya prompts, "What about tonight?"

"Well, the bedding."

Arya snickers, "I appreciate the thought but I'm no blushing maiden."

Sansa looks absolutely scandalized. "Who-"

She had intentionally left out certain details about Braavos; it would only worry her sister. So she quickly says, "Gendry."

"I'll need to have a word with your husband," Sansa answers sternly.

Arya grins, imagining Gendry having that conversation. But this is new. Sansa has hardly ever been protective of her. But then, Arya has never been protective of Sansa either. Yet now she would slit the throat of any man who so much as looked at her wrong.

Sansa leads her out of the chambers and there are guards waiting to escort them to the Sept. Arya walks quickly, despising the attention. She realizes she'll have to get used to it eventually and cringes at the thought.

Gendry – he looks nervous, shifting feet and eyes wide when he sees her making her way through the part in the crowd. She smiles reassuringly at him, but that seems to only make his eyes wider. They repeat their vows and the old Septon spews something about the Seven, but Arya only focuses on Gendry, the curve of his lips and his intense gaze.

At last, the septon gestures to Sansa and her sister steps forward. Arya notices Tarly looking away when Sansa unfastens her maiden cloak, leaving Arya strangely satisfied as Gendry wraps his own cloak around her, a heavy thing embroidered with stags, black and yellow threads.

 _Am I a stag now_? Arya thinks suddenly, a pang of panic driving through her. _Am I a Baratheon?_

No, no. She wanted to keep her father's name. She wanted to make the Starks proud. Even if she was wed to a Baratheon, she decided she would never want to be called so. All her brothers were dead, and the one remaining is a Snow. Sansa is the only other Stark left. She couldn't give that up, the last connection to wolf blood.

She turns away from Gendry, seeking out Sansa who stands with the heavy Stark cloak in her hands beside Nym, looking poised and collected despite her wet eyes. Sansa nods to her and Arya knows: she'll always be a Stark.

The feast passes by in a rush. She dances with enough Lords to fulfill obligation and returns to the seat of honor. Arya can hardly eat through her tight corset and the layers slathered on her face. The wine is overly sweet on her tongue and the hall is too hot, and Arya wants it to be over. Gendry looks just about the same, looking uncomfortable in his crown. Will she have to wear a crown? Arya dreads the weight of it on her head.

"The Bedding!" a drunken voice calls out and is quickly picked up by others. Gendry is swiftly engulfed by a mass of Ladies in frilly gowns.

The first man to reach for Arya is knocked flat on his back, the second receives a bloody nose, and the third clutches his broken wrist. The rest of the men wisely back away from her with a groan. None of the other men try to touch her and she smirks her way to the king's chambers.

Gendry suffers much more than she does by the time he stumbles in. His face is bright red under his dark hair, bare chested, only in his smallclothes and a single boot on.

She bursts out laughing and he collapses on the bed beside her, looking equal parts frustrated and embarrassed. "You're still wearing your gown," he whines.

"I threatened to geld any man who came too close."

"Good," Gendry mutters, pressing a kiss to her lips. He fumbles with tightly bound laces at the front of the intricately embroidered bodice until her breasts tumble free from the fabric and it feels like the first breath into her lungs in eons.

They make love and it's fast, though not disappointing. She suspects they are both too exhausted by the day's affairs to linger. Gendry falls asleep within minutes after, sprawled out on the bed, snoring softly.

But Arya is still restless and finally unfettered, and she finds Needle under the bed where she had stashed it and straps it around her waist, wraps a shawl over herself, and lightly steps out of the chambers. She nods at the guard and quickly walks away before he can question her. _Will_ he question her? She is the queen. The thought makes her giddy.

The castle holds fond memories, though more of them are bittersweet. She considers going to Sansa or Nym, but then she remembers the dragon skulls in the underbelly of the castle and heads down into the darkness.

Arya takes one of the lit lanterns and is careful not to bump into any of the guards. Once she reaches the dry stale air, she stares in awe at the massive dragon jaws, feeling tiny and insignificant. She can still fit between them, despite the tight fit. Arya curls in among the dead ancient beasts and sighs contentedly to herself, Needle settling into the grove between her legs. She feels pity for the dragons; they deserve better fates than to be left down here to wither without respect.

"And so a girl has become queen," a voice softly whispers.

Arya's head jerks forward. She doesn't move from her place, merely answers, "And what of the man? He still sneaks around like a common criminal."

"The girl and the man, criminals perhaps – but nothing common."

"No," she murmurs. "We aren't."

"The Red God still waits."

Arya pulls herself out of the maws of long dead dragons and studies Jaqen in the dim light of the lantern. He leans against one of the skulls, arms crossed. "He will keep waiting then."

"And the House of Black and White? Will they?"

"They had better," Arya answers. "And if they are so eager to serve the Many-Faced God, let them come. I'll send them to my favorite face, the Stranger."

"The girl is not afraid?"

"Fear cuts deeper than swords."

"Not for herself, no. She is not afraid. But what about her beautiful sister?"

Arya steps forward, glaring at him. "Don't you go near her."

"This one can promise nothing," Jaqen smiles, his teeth standing apart from the dark hues of his skin. "You were told Gendry Baratheon would not be touched... but Sansa Stark. Can a girl protect her husband _and_ her sister? Can she guard both?"

She clenches her jaw together. A dull ache is forming in her chest, old and familiar, something reminiscent of when she was a little girl and her brother had fallen, her sister's wolf had been killed, her father had been executed. "Why are you doing this?"

"A name has been said."

"His is not the only one. I can send others in his place. Men who actually deserve to die. I can recite you a fucking list," Arya hisses.

"Did any man from this list promise his life to the Red God as a girl did?"

"People change."

"People with _faces_ change. The Faceless do not."

"It's a good thing I'm not faceless then."

Jaqen laughs, the sound echoes in the empty chamber. "So she says but that is not for the girl to decide herself."

Arya leans forward. "Help me," she whispers. "Help me make this right. Help me save Gendry."

He tilts his head and looks at her with narrowed eyes. "I helped a girl once. She was a boy, then she was little, then she was a wolf, then she was a mouse, then she was brave."

"I'm brave," Arya tells him. She reaches for her sword and Needle makes a whispering sound when she brings it to his throat. It is the second time she has held the blade out to him. "Tell me, Jaqen, if I run you through, will I see your real face? The one with red and white hair?"

Jaqen's eyes flick down to the sword and return slowly to her face. "This is how a girl asks for help? With threats?"

"Would you agree to help me otherwise?"

He licks his lips. "Perhaps. A man can change names at the altar. A man can do this and all a girl must do is kill the replacement."

Hope springs in Arya. She can save him. "I'll do it."

"A queen with blood on her hands. They'll write songs and stories of her. Mothers will sing them to scare children, children will burrow under furs and shake when they dream of her," Jaqen muses. "The girl is not Faceless anymore, as she admits herself."

"I don't have to be to kill. I wasn't the first time I did it."

Jaqen stares at her for a long time until she is nervous, until her pulse is loud in her ears. At last, Jaqen leans away from the sword and gives her a mocking bow. "The Red God will want his due, someone with noble blood and influence. He will want a name."

"Then I'll give him Petyr Baelish."


	5. Gods Fight No Wars; Men Do

Stannis Baratheon sends his nephew a raven, the first from one proclaimed king to another, the first acknowledgement sent to King's Landing. Varys reads the letter aloud at the table of the Small Council and afterwards everyone stares, unsure where to start.

Arya breaks the silence, "Rickon's alive?

And Gendry scoffs, "He wants me to bend the knee to him and go to Storm's End?"

She turns to glare at him, that this is what he's picked up from the letter: his position as king is threatened, and not the sudden startling revelation that Rickon is well and alive and back in Winterfell. Gendry, in turn, only shrugs helplessly. He knows Arya has been moodier recently, sullen and snapping at the slightest, unwilling to talk to him at nights.

"Did he use the actual words _permit?_ " Nymeria asks. "As in, Stannis said he would _permit_ us to live if we surrender to him now? What makes him think he has that choice? We know there are Houses in the North that will rally for us if the situation comes to war. Where is Stannis's confidence coming from?"

"The Red God," Gendry answers easily.

Tarly snorts, loud and undignified, "Gods fight no wars. Men do."

"Have you seen what the priests who worship the Lord of Light can do?" Gendry replies, remembering his days with the Brotherhood. "I've seen them bring dead men and women back to life. He has good reason to be confident."

"The Battle of Blackwater would beg to differ," Tarly smirks.

Arya interrupts, "Rickon's hardly a _child_. He can't rule Winterfell. If there's no mention of Bran-" she frowns and pauses for a moment, "-then Sansa should inherit the position of Warden of the North."

All eyes turn to Sansa, sitting with her hands folded, chewing her lower lip. She meets Arya's gaze and says, "Robb was our elder and he married Jeyne Westerling. Where is Jeyne?"

Arya's voice is low and Gendry can see her muscles tense when she answers, "Jeyne is not a Stark, despite the wedding. We would lose our northern allies were she to take the seat."

"The larger issue should be the crown," Merryweather pipes up. "Not Winterfell's seat. Stannis's insistence that Gendry step down is both an insult and a challenge. We should retaliate with attack."

"Must we always?" Varys sighs, ever the peacemaker. "There may still be a way to negotiate a peaceful outcome. War would mean soldiers lost – and must I remind the council we have already sent a quarter of our men to the Wall to assist the Lord Commander. We have received confirmation from Essos that Daenerys Targaryen's khalasar has increased nearly triple fold in size and she has dragons. A common enemy may be all Westeros needs. Stannis is bound by duty, but he is hardly irrational."

Tarly leans forward. "He has a rather young daughter, isn't that so? How well is she protected?"

"If you're suggesting we assassinate a young defenseless girl, Ser Tarly," Gendry's voice is sharp, "you are sitting among the wrong council."

Varys turns suddenly to stare at him and for a moment, he thinks he has said something wrong. Varys had already been cross when Gendry commanded to send the men Jon Snow wanted North, and again when he accepted Lady Nym into his Kingsguard then made her the head in Jamie's absence. But Varys nods slightly and adds, "An alliance may be formed."

Gendry does not understand why Stannis cannot simply take the crown, why Varys hadn't gone to him when Tommen was exposed as a Lannister. He would gladly give it up (though a voice tells him he should not; his father was the king), and it would solve all manner of problems plaguing them. Instead, he says, "What kind of an alliance?"

"Offer him a position of significance," Varys says.

"He would do well as the Hand," Nymeria suggests, and Martyn Lannister shoots her a nasty look, which she returns with more grace then Gendry thinks he deserves, and continues speaking, "His daughter can be promised Rickon Stark and she will stand to inherit Winterfell, if Sansa does not return."

"Rickon's a bit too young for Shireen," Sansa points out. "Even with the promise of Winterfell, wouldn't the offer be perceived as offensive instead of comforting?"

"The girl is afflicted with greyscale," Tarly sneers. "That she is getting any promise at all should be enough."

Nymeria has a retort to that, but Gendry tunes the Council out. He turns to look at his wife. She fidgets with Needle under the table, eyes glassy but occasionally focusing on a new speaker before wandering again.

Who are they fooling? Westeros or themselves? Arya is unfit to be queen, just as he is unfit to be king. The people may like them well enough, but if he recalls, they liked Cersei for her first few years too. Sansa and Harrold, now they are more suited to the Iron Throne than either of them. Arya isn't happy until she has a sword in her hands, and he with a hammer. He wonders if their children will have better luck in court. Sons with brown hair and blue eyes, girls with red hair like the Tully in Arya's blood, maybe even a daughter with golden hair like his mother.

Arya sits up abruptly, snapping, "No, you can't do that."

Gendry realizes he's missed something. He returns his attention to the meeting as Sansa answers, "It's a reasonable compromise, Arya. I'll have Harrold with me, as well as a slew of guards."

"And if Stannis decides to attack you both?"

"The heir of the Vale and a Stark of Winterfell?" Sansa asks skeptically. "Arya, really."

"What if he decides to send us a message by chopping both of your heads off? Guest right doesn't mean much anymore, you know that," Arya argues. "It wouldn't be the first time someone's done something stupid in this godforsaken continent."

"You're the Queen of this continent!"

For a moment, they aren't two women in the king's Small Council at King's Landing, not queen and lady; they're sisters, squabbling over the last slice of lemon cake and a single step away from pulling hair and name calling. But with Sansa's last sentence, Arya pulls herself up on the chair, as composed as she can be, as if she is reminded.

"My men and I can accompany them," Tarly weighs in hesitantly. "Tyrell and Lannister soldiers alike."

It is the first time Tarly has offered any sort of physical service, short of japes and half-hearted tactics. Even Arya seems surprised. "And who would take your place here, Ser?"

"It seems I'm hardly needed here. The last time my word meant anything was when Tommen still sat on the throne, if you'll forgive the comparison. I would not mind the travel North, I have never been farther than the Riverlands."

In the end, they decide to leave as soon as possible, which Varys assures them can be tomorrow afternoon. The Council scatters to prepare, Sansa and Tarly discussing their route, and Arya slips away faster than Gendry can follow.

He gets stopped twice on his way to their chambers, once by Merryweather to sign the decree sanctioning soldiers north and once by Steffan Swyft, who wanted to know how early the king wanted to be woken the next morning. By the time he opens the door, Arya's already crownless and her cloak is lying across the bed, standing relaxed at the window, a wineskin in her hands. He takes a moment to admire the sight.

"Is that wine?" Gendry asks, reaching for the skin.

She swats his hand away and takes a swig, making a face immediately after. "No, stupid, it's moon tea."

At least she doesn't call _him_ that in Council, just Westeros. He raises an eyebrow and starts, "Varys says we should have children as soon-"

"Varys says a lot," Arya snaps. "You should take a little care who you blatantly put your trust in."

"Varys has been the only one to support me since I became king," Gendry replies, unsure why she is so against him. "He's only trying to help. Having legitimate heirs will ensure we don't end up like the others did."

"Because having legitimate heirs certainly helped Elia Martell and her children?" Arya asks pointedly, turning her face back to the window. "Besides, Varys isn't trying to help _you,_ he's trying to help the realm. As soon as you're not of use, Varys will find a replacement. He always knows more than he lets on."

Gendry rolls his eyes and leans his chin on her shoulder, wrapping both arms around her skinny form. "Yes, he's the Master of Whispers. It's his job."

"He knew. Varys knew. About Joffrey being a Lannister, about Daenerys and about… my father," Arya shakes her head and he can feel the way she breathes from her chest, the way her spine is straight and flat against his body, the way her hands grip the wineskin with her moon tea in it. She whispers, "I was just a kid. I should've told my father everything but I was just a stupid kid chasing cats."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Gendry murmurs, though he thinks he might. Varys had slipped once at the mention of Arianne Martell. He quickly clears his thoughts and asks, "Arya, what's the matter?"

She turns to him and her breath is warm against his ear. "I want to go North with my sister."

"What?" he pulls away, confused. "You what?"

"I can't let her go alone. I have to – _we_ have to go with her. She's under our responsibility and we can't let her just leave all by herself. All of my family will be North, caught in the middle of a war, and I cannot leave them. Besides, Stannis would never attack you; he's a man so bound by honor and duty, he would consider kinslaying a greater sin then incest."

Gendry exhales. "If we left, they would tear King's Landing apart within seconds. What if Daenerys comes with her dragons when we are away?"

"Then maybe we save our lives," Arya answers. "We can't fight dragons. You've been to Harrenhall; you've seen what they're capable of. And that was with one of the greatest armies Westeros had ever seen. Have you seen _our_ men? They cower at the sight of shadows. To this day, none of your Kingsguard other than Nym can even look me in the eye. You can't expect them to fight for you. If dragons came to Westeros tomorrow, we would lose."

"And if we die going North?" Gendry's voice trembles.

" _All_ men must die!" she snaps. "If we die, they'll bury us and put someone else on the bloody throne. But I am not leaving my family to fight alone in the north, and if I have to leave you to do it, so be it."

"You wouldn't. You wouldn't leave me."

Arya narrows her eyes and the hair on the back of his neck prickles. Suddenly, Gendry doesn't want to test her. He thinks of her holding a sword to his neck, prepared to strike. A vague terror starts growing in his belly and he prays she doesn't answer, prays to the old gods and the Seven and the Red God-

An urgent knocking at the door distracts both of them. Arya caps her wineskin and barks, "Enter," effectively cutting their conversation short.

Swyft stumbles in, his tunic on backwards, panic on his face. "They've called you to the Council Room, Your Grace – er, both of you. They said to hurry."

"Who's _they_?" Arya asks, already reaching for her cloak and crown.

"V-Varys and Tarly. They were returning from the rookery – there's been a raven from the Night's Watch."

Arya and Gendry exchange looks and nod. They move quickly and in unison, she grabbing Needle and strapping it around her waist, he setting her crown upon her short hair and returning her wineskin to the chest of drawers by their bed. They're ready to go within a minute.

Swyft trails them, stumbling over his own feet in haste, and Gendry and Arya take long strides to the Council Room. They arrive just as Sansa does, and Gendry does not miss noting she is wearing Harrold Hardying's cloak. Nymeria is already there, though not in her usual armor, her long hair falling over one shoulder as he has never seen it.

Varys and Tarly stand side by side, and Tarly holds out a letter to Gendry wordlessly.

Gendy licks his lips nervously, accepting it. He unfolds it slowly, his fingers trembling. The others gather around him, peering over his shoulder, reading silently as he speaks the shaky writing. There are only two sentences scrawled on the paper:

_The Others have come. Send help._

…

She thinks she may have missed packing some things in her hurry; she's almost certain Gendry has. The servants had packed most of their wardrobes and Arya had to explain to them with growing impatience that the North was _cold._

"These fine silks and gentle cottons won't do any good in icy winds and falling snow," she'd told them. "Pack our leather boots with steel toes and the heaviest furs you can find – and for the sake of the old gods, don't pack me any more than two gowns. I'll need breeches to fight."

The servants had given each other looks at the word _fight,_ but she hadn't cared to hang around long enough to hear any complaints. Now, having left King's Landing far behind on their steeds, she runs through all the things she'd forgotten to bring, knowing there is something but being incapable of remembering. Not that it matters; they're nearly to Darry, already a day's hard ride. She can't go back now anyway. Their next stop, where they were to set up camp, would be outside the Crossroads Inn just as the sun set.

Beside her, Gendry mumbles something about how uncomfortable riding is. Arya glances at him and answers absently, speaking up to be heard, "Adjust your stance. Quit leaning to one side, it's making your horse uncomfortable. Stop gripping the reins so hard. We're not stopping anytime soon; we're right in the heart of the Riverlands."

He struggles anyway and she rolls her eyes at his stubborness. She loves being on a horse again after so long, relishes that she can thunder over the roads, though she purposefully lags to keep pace with Gendry. Varys had insisted they travel in wheelhouses, with comfort and servants. Arya had argued him out of that idea, but they are still flanked by more soldiers than she thinks necessary. Scouts in all four directions, a crowd of archers, swordsmen, and still farther behind, about half of King's Landing's soldiers led by Tarly. At least Nym's a good enough rider so her horse and Arya's are neck to neck, and they are close enough to occasionally comment to each other.

Gendry grumbles again, this time cursing the snow, and Arya sighs, "I told you to put on the thicker furs."

"You didn't!" he shouts back.

"I'm a northerner!" she answers. The cold hardly affected her the way it did Gendry and Nym. At least Nym had put on her extra furs. She didn't understand why he had to be so stubborn. It wasn't a competition – anyway, if it was, she'd win.

 _He's just bitter,_ she thinks. With the raven from the Wall, Gendry had no choice but to travel North with Sansa's entourage. He was the King of the realm, and he was needed in the North. They left their court and Council members, with the exception of Nymeria and Tarly, and Gendry seemed to brood since their argument. Sansa had said it was normal, that he would get over it eventually, but Arya still worries. And not just for Gendry but also for Jon at the Wall and little Rickon at Winterfell, for missing Bran who fell, and of course for Sansa.

She wishes Sansa and Harrold travelled with them. Instead, they decided to take a ship back to the Vale to rally more forces and join them at the Wall. Sansa had assured her she would be okay, though Arya could make out the glimmer of fear in her eyes when she spoke of Littlefinger.

Oh, she would relish his death, the man who betrayed her father and terrorized her sister, the man who held Robert Arryn's life over Sansa's head like a pendulum. The North would rise again. After the Mormont's raven, others had flooded into King's Landing swearing their fealty to Sansa and Arya Stark: the Manderlys, the Reeds (despite both of their children missing), Houses she hadn't even known existed who claimed they were Wildlings settled in the Gift who wished to bow to the wolves, the Glovers and Liddles and Flints, nearly all of her father's sworn houses. Most declared fealty in spite of Stannis Baratheon, who they fought with against the Boltons.

Arya's distracted from her thoughts when Nym gestures them to slow down. "Gendry," Arya turns to him. "Pull on the reins _gently._ We need to slow down."

"Why?" he asks, brows furrowed together.

She stifles back a laugh. He looks so much like a doll being bounced about on his saddle. One of his feet dangles from the stirrup. "Nym signaled," Arya yells over the wind.

It takes him a few minutes to slow down enough; Arya and Nym keeping their horses on a light gallop. They finally come to a stop on the hard road. The horses seem nervous, pawing at the hard frozen ground, branches crackling underfoot. Nym signals at the archers and a dozen men have their bows strung within a few short moments, drawing arrows but not taking aim.

"What is it?" Gendry asks as Nym dismounts, her dark eyes intent.

"Something's following us, Your Grace," she says. The woods, completely empty of leaves, are heavy on either side of them. They're only a few towns and cities north but already the air is colder. "There's someone in the woods. I've seen them several times. They seem to be running at roughly our own speed."

"What? They're on horses?" Arya asks, sliding off her mare with ease. Her feet sink up to her ankles in snow. "In woods so thick?"

Nym turns to Arya, frowning. "I don't know," she says slowly. "Whatever it is… it's definitely as _big_ as a horse."

"Your Grace," one of the archers calls out. "There have been stories coming from this area of the woods for years of wild animals that feast on human flesh."

Arya narrows her eyes at the man. "Animals?" she asks. "What kind of animals?"

The man looks reluctant when he answers, "Your Grace, wolves."

A low growl resounds through her chest. The horses whinny loudly and she can hear several of the archers gasp and aim for the noise. A loud howl picks up from the dead forest and Arya's mare bucks, her feet lifting in the ground. Arya reaches for her reins and puts a soothing hand on her neck. She calms some but the ongoing howls continue to pierce through the air. She can feel how tense everyone is when she steps forward in the direction of the noise.

Behind her, Gendry calls, "Arya, be careful."

Ignoring him, Arya continues toward the woods, her feet leaving tracks in the snow, stopping just short of the twisted branches. Yellow eyes peer back at her through the dark shadows, and she distinctly hears the growling separate from the howls. As Arya stares back at the eyes, the howls die down one by one until the silence they leave is nearly as eerie as their sounds had been.

Arya says softly, "Nymeria?"

Behind her, Nym draws her sword and takes a hesitant step forward.

With a snarl, a massive beast bursts from the trees, a monster with sharpened fangs dripping saliva and matted gnarled fur, knotted with bits of dead leaves and branches. Her hot breath is visible in the air and she snarls again.

The horses panic, Arya's mare bolting down the road past the disoriented archers, attempting to calm their own steeds even as they try to keep their arrows notched. She can hear Gendry shouting at her to back off, to draw Needle, but Arya can only focus as the beast throws back it's huge shaggy head, ears flat against its skull, and howls at the darkening sky.

The direwolf's muscles are tense, her hind legs prepared to pounce. Arya is unafraid. Her pulse pounds in her ears and adrenaline floods her body, but she is only fiercely excited as she charges at Nymeria just as Nymeria's paws leaps off the ground.

They clash mid-air. Arya scrambles to find purchase on Nymeria's coat slick with mud, her fingers grabbing as the wolf's jaws snap too close to her ear. Arya roars back, the guttural sound escaping her throat without conscious thought. One hand wraps around Nymeria's throat, pushing her face away. She manages to swing upright, legs squeezing tight to keep from falling off her shoulder blades where she has found a niche to sit in.

Nymera tries to throw her off, jerking back, a whining in her throat. Arya holds on, hands forming fists to keep balance, screaming, "Nymeria!"

Rather than concede defeat, Nymeria crashes to the ground, her massive bulk landing on the snow. She wriggles her back and Arya realizes she's going to be crushed under the weight when Nymeria rolls over. Arya jumps off her back and lands hard. She feels the icy sting of snow on her cheek and turns to face Nymera.

Arya squeezes her eyes shut, sure Nymeria will bring her claws down and smash her ribs or rip her throat out, but then opens them again. If her own direwolf was going to kill her, she would stare death in the eyes. However, instead of attacking, Nymeria lowers her head with surprising gentleness and sniffs. One long inhale and Arya stops breathing as the wolf's wet snout touches her neck.

Keening in her throat, Nymeria butts Arya's shoulder with her head.

Arya props herself up on her elbows and manages to sit up. Her clothes are dirty and torn but a smile starts on her lips. Nymeria blows hot stinky breath across her face and settles down with her front paws on Arya's knees, huffing loudly and touching her snout again to Arya's neck.

A giggle starts in Arya's lungs, bubbling from her tongue. She runs a hand behind Nymeria's ears, scratching, and her giggles turn into a laugh. Nymeria yips like an excited pup and rubs the side of her face along Arya's wrist and Arya throws back her head and laughs into the sky.

Getting up on her feet, Arya grabs Nymeria's coat again with both hands and hoists herself up to the dip between Nymeria's shoulder blades. There is no complaint this time, no struggle. Settled into the groove, Arya digs the heels of her feet into Nymeria's flanks and yells, "Run, girl!"

With a short howl, Nymeria takes off down the road in long strides, spooking the horses once more. Arya can just make out Gendry's terrified face and Nym's surprised one until the wolf picks up speed and everything else is a blur.

She had thought riding a horse was freedom, but this – this is flying.


	6. You Should Be Happy

He hasn't seen Arya since yesterday. She was gone when he woke alone in his tent, leaving just a note that reads, _Nym and I will be back._ That was it. He pretends in front of his soldiers that everything is fine, that he knows exactly where the Queen and the head of his Kingsguard are.

Gendry can't help but blame Nymeria. Ever since the direwolf returned a fortnight ago, Arya had barely spent any time with him. The wolf could run three times as fast as any of the scouts horses and even Nym couldn't dream of keeping pace with her. Now they're forced to stop somewhere between the Saltpans and the Twins due to a snowstorm so vicious, the horses could hardly ride through it. At this rate, Tarly's army would catch up with their party sooner than they reached the North and Stannis would die of old age.

And of course, she's gone so Gendry has no one to gripe to.

It angers him that she doesn't so much as tell him where she is so at least he won't worry. He tries to keep busy. Instead of wringing his hands uselessly, he teaches Swyft how to fight with a hammer in his tent but the boy can hardly hold the massive weapon, let alone swing. Gendry despairs for Cornfield; their heir has neither brawn nor brain.

For what seems like the fifth time, Gendry realigns Swyft's posture. The boy continues to keep his elbows extended and Gendry rolls his eyes, not bothering to correct him this time as he returns to his goblet of spiced wine. "We're supposed to be joined by the Reeds as soon as we enter the North. They're expecting us, if they received Varys's raven in time. Do you think they're worried we're so late?"

"Your Grace, from what I can recall, it is common for travel in winter to be slow, even for a small party. It is possible they have scouts looking for us but the Reeds – well, the Reeds never receive ravens, only send them. They say ravens cannot find their swamp island."

"More trickery," he mutters, swallowing. "How are the men doing?"

"Most of them are angry, Your Grace."

"At?"

Swyft shrugs. "The weather. The gods."

"They aren't the only ones," Gendry grumbles and takes another swig. The wine tastes strong and makes him sluggish so he leans against one of the poles keeping the tent up.

The hammer slips from Swyft's grip and crashes to the ground. He stares at it dejected for a long moment before sighing and looking up. "I think some of them are scared of… er, of the wolf."

"Arya promised the wolf wouldn't hurt any of them, so long as they didn't bother her."

"That doesn't keep the men from being scared, sire," Steffan licks his lips and hesitates before he continues, "Your Grace, may I be bold enough to ask if…" he trails off.

Gendry finishes the last of his wine and says, "Oh, go on, now that you've started."

"Is the Queen a warg?" he blurts.

Of course those are the stories he'd heard of northerners when he was young and even at the Crossroads Inn. He wishes he had an answer but Arya has never mentioned skinchanging and he's never asked. Most nights, they fall asleep instantly, or make love and fall asleep, or she leaves him in the tent and rides Nymeria until day breaks. He wonders if she sleeps then dismisses the notion. Of course his wife sleeps, sometimes nestled into Nymeria's fur and sometimes curled up in his arms. But he can't remember the last time he had woken to her body pressed against his.

To Steffan, he asks, "Is that what they're saying out there?"

"It's only a rumor," Swyft says, his face red. "I didn't mean to – I mean, it's not like they, uh-"

His stuttering is excused when the tent flaps open and Arya walks through in full armor splattered with mud and crimson stains of what is almost certainly blood. Her hair is sticking to her face with sweat, tousled undoubtedly from her helm. Outside, Gendry hears a howl mix in with the raging wind, announcing Nymeria's arrival as well.

"You," she snaps, pointing at Swyft, "get out."

Leaving the hammer where it is with eyes wide, Steffan scrambles to leave, nearly tripping over his own feet. Arya doesn't break stride until she reaches Gendry, where she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him. It catches him unawares for only a moment until he responds like he always does to her touch, helpless and forgetting how frustrated he is with her. He lets the empty goblet fall and brings her closer with a hand at her back. She tastes like metal and snow. The bottom of Arya's chest plate digs into the skin of his stomach painfully and he has to pull away.

With the slightest bit of distance between them, cold and anger hit Gendry with renewed vigor.

"Aren't you the knight in shining armor?" he sneers.

Arya frowns, not catching his meaning and saying, "It's hardly shiny," before she realizes he's mocking her. She leans away from him. "What do you mean?"

"Where were you?" he demands.

She presses her lips together. "Doesn't matter," she says finally. "I'm back now."

"Arya," he starts, but she quickly cuts him off.

"The Vale. I went to the Vale to see if Sansa's ship had arrived yet."

Gendry stares at her before he quietly says, "There's blood on your armor."

Arya looks down, as if noticing for the first time. She reaches behind to tug at the straps but gives up only a few seconds later. When she looks back at him with dark eyes, she asks, "Do you want me to lie to you or tell you the truth?"

He takes Arya's hand and turns her so the back of her armor is to him. "Let me," he murmurs, finding the knots of her armor and untying them, mulling over her question. Does he really want to know? Yes, he decides, he does. "I want the truth, Arya. No more secrets between you and me, okay?"

Arya stands still and silent as he dismantles her armor piece by piece, the steel around her chest, her shoulders, Needle in its sheath, the cuffs around her wrist. Kneeling to unfasten the armor around her thighs, he feels a moment of sympathy for Swyft. He'd never realized there were so many pieces.

Then she begins to talk, "A debt of noble blood can only be paid by an equal. The law still applies to the blood of a noble bastard, even more so a King. The Faceless Men are not in the habit of forgetting a name once it has been spoken. I saved your life and took another in its place."

Gendry straightens and she turns to face him. He avoids her eyes as he adds the last bit of her armor to the metal pile. "Will you tell me whose?"

A smile spreads over Arya's face, something cheeky and familiar, something Arry might have given him years ago. "Let's just say I left Sansa a gift on the highest pike of the aptly named Bloody Gate."

 _Littlefinger,_ Gendry realizes with a jolt. She'd killed Petyr Baelish. Unsettled, he steps back. Arya notices immediately because her smile vanishes. "You don't approve."

"Of course I don't," he says, feeling stupid even as he says the words. His approval hardly makes any difference; Arya would still do what she wants and he wouldn't have it any other way if given the choice.

"Why not?" she demands. "I did it to save your life or Jaqen would've come to finish what I started."

"Jaqen? The criminal from the Kingsroad?"

She ignores the question. Instead, her voice raises as she says, "I knew the storm wouldn't be over soon and Nym can run through the blizzard to the Gate and back within a day, even if horses can't. What would you rather have me do? Leave the debt unpaid? Finish my task and slit your throat?"

"What if you'd gotten hurt?" he retorts, heat rising to his cheeks. "You're the Queen. You shouldn't be running away and killing; you should be wearing beautiful gowns and dancing with someone who deserves you – not a fool who can't even run his own kingdom who you are constantly fighting with! You should be _happy!_ "

Arya opens her mouth angrily but then she blinks and slowly closes it. Softly, she asks him, "Do you think I'm not happy here? With you?"

"How could you be?" he answers bitterly. He can't remember the last time she'd smiled at him. "You were raised as a lady and they married you off to a bastard you were nearly willing to leave, a fucking bastard whose children you don't even want to bear."

A muscle in her jaw twitches and Gendry thinks he may have said too much. It's too late to take any of it back and his entire body trembles with the effort to stand still. "Did you know I was one of the only two women among the Faceless Men? The Waif and I, and the rest of them were men with no faces."

"I didn't," Gendry answers quietly.

Arya stares at the ground for a long time before she looks up at him. "Faceless Men bring death. Women bring life. And yet I was with the House of Black and White for many years. What does that say about me?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You're still Arya Stark of Winterfell and you're the bloody Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. If anyone should be worried, it's me. I command no one's loyalties. The North tolerates me because of you and the South does so for Nym's sake, if they do at all. Any House loyal to the Baratheons supported Renly or Stannis and have shown me no allegiance. I've never been ashamed of myself until they told me who I really was."

"I've never been ashamed of you at _all_ ," Arya answers. "Whether you're a bastard or a king, you'll always just be Gendry to me."

He snorts, "That doesn't change the fact I was born to a common woman and raised in Flea's Bottom," he mutters, staring down at his hands.

Arya reaches for his hand and he relaxes; he hadn't realized when they'd formed into fists. She presses her lips to his cheek and whispers, "No mother is common. You know that."

"Easy for you to say, isn't it? You're the daughter of Catelyn Tully, Lady Stoneheart of Winterfell."

She tenses, close enough to him that he can feel it. "Stoneheart?" she asks sharply. "My mother was never called Lady Stoneheart."

He shakes his head, "A mistake," he mumbles.

"You're lying," Arya growls. "Why did you call her Lady Stoneheart?"

Gendry almost doesn't answer. He has nearly succeeded in putting those memories out of his head, of her clammy grey skin and her voice like metal grating against rock, of the bloody slash in her neck and the white of bone peeking through, her harsh commands when she condemned men and boys alike to death. He can hear the sounds of birds picking at their rotting flesh and he swallows back bile. No, he almost doesn't answer.

But then Arya puts her cold hands on his cheek and whispers, "No secrets, Gendry."

So he tells her.

…

She wears her crown for the first time since they took to the road. Even if it feels heavy and unwieldy, uncomfortable when she rides, and Nym has to use far too many pins to keep it on her short hair – Arya is determined to meet her mother as a queen instead of a stupid girl who couldn't protect her father.

If it really is her mother.

Gendry had seemed confident, practically swore it was her, and that he was telling the truth was plain from his face. And Arya herself has a memory that tastes bitter, a distant vague notion of pulling her mother out of a river that she can't quite grasp. So she takes Nym back down the Kingsroad, back to the inn at the Crossroads, to find Lady Stoneheart and the Brotherhood of Banners where Gendry had been knighted and worked as a smith.

At first, he'd insisted on coming with her. It took her hours, as well as Nym's arguments, to convince him he would be better off with the men, to move forward when the storm cleared soon, that she could hurry there and back as she had with the Bloody Gate. She knows he'll worry regardless, just as she does for him. But with his bloodprice paid to the Red God, she doesn't think anyone will attack their camp.

Especially not since she keeps an eye on them from Nymeria's pack of wild wolves.

It is the thing about her Nym finds most disconcerting. Every time she returns from warging into one of the wolves following their camp, Nym is staring at her with her knuckles tightly gripping the hilt of her sword. Arya can understand. Most of the time, she hardly understands it either, only that it is easier to enter the mind of wolves then it was with cats in Braavos.

She's getting better at it every time, feeling comfortable enough to warg while on her direwolf's back, though she can feel the connection fading the farther she gets from the rest of Nymeria's pack. This time, she only stays in the skin of a black skinny cub that reminds her of Shaggydog long enough to ensure Gendry is surrounded by archers and knights before she returns to her own mind.

"Is it you again?" Nym asks from her own horse, loud above the wind and galloping and the furry hood pulled around her face.

Arya nods. "It's always me," she says, though she isn't sure. She barely knows what's happening to her body when she's… away. "How far from the inn are we?"

"It shouldn't be much further," Nym answers. "We passed a sign to the inn just a while back. You weren't you then. Your eyes were white."

"Does it disgust you?" Arya asks, suddenly afraid of losing her only friend. She can't imagine going on without Nym's comfortable presence. _Will Gendry be disgusted when I tell him?_

Nym concentrates on the road and it disturbs Arya, but she finally says, "It _worries_ me. I'm afraid your eyes will never return to grey again."

"So do I," she mutters too softly for Nym to hear. Louder, she asks, "Do you think Gendry's okay? I left pretty soon after our… argument."

"From what I know of His Grace, he won't dwell on it."

Arya considers, just as she catches a glimpse of the inn's roof over the treetops and she turns to Nym, nodding and pointing. Both slow their speed, Arya with gentle murmuring to Nymeria and Nym with her reigns. Arya had considered saddling Nymeria but she knows instinctively that her wolf would like that as much as she had liked manacles.

They stop outside the inn and two children squatting in the snow stare up at them, rosy cheeks and wide eyes fixed on the direwolf. Arya dismounts and steps closer to the children and the younger one, a boy, squeals, running back inside the inn. The door opens for a moment, the inside lit warmly and the sounds of music reaching her before it slams shut again.

The girl looks at Arya and asks in a small voice, "Can I touch her?"

"You aren't scared?" Arya replies.

The girl shakes her head. "Nuh uh. My little brother is but not me. I leave food for the little wolfies whenever I have extra." She sighs ruefully and adds, "I don't have any extra these days."

Arya promises to herself she'll help the orphans after the war. For now, she says, "Can you get Jeyne for me? Or Lem?"

The girl nods, "Lem's inside," and, with one last longing look at Nymeria, goes inside. She remembers Lem, his hideously colored cloak. Gendry told her he was the one she should ask for, that he spent time at the inn more often than others of the Brotherhood did. Arya wishes now she had stopped at the inn with Gendry. But it had been her first night with Nymeria and she had spent it deep in the forest, meeting the pack, instead of in a warm room with her husband.

Nym shakes snow off her boots and blows her breath into her hands and Arya holds back a smirk. She doesn't feel cold like the others do, a matter she regards with pride. Wolf blood.

Lem opens the door to the inn. The big bearded man stares at her for a long moment before he says in his loud booming voice, "Lumpyface Arry. I heard you were a Queen now. Even have the crown to prove it, I see."

"You should be bowing to me and calling me Your Grace," Arya grins. "And you owe me three gold dragons for the horses you took from us."

"You smashed my face in with a tankard. I think we're even," but still he smiles at her too. "You did marry the blacksmith after all. When we learned you were a Stark, we thought for sure that boy would end his days in heartbreak."

"Gendry Baratheon," she supplies his name. She hadn't known he'd been heartbroken after she left with the Hound.

"I know," Lem runs a hand through his beard and they're quiet for a moment. "I spoke to him a few nights ago, when he and his men were here. This one was with him too," he gestures at Nym, who nods. "Gendry said you didn't know then. I take it you know now."

"I do. I want to see her."

"Of course you do," Lem mumbles, scuffing his feet in the snow. "You should know she isn't – she's not the same woman she was before all this. Thoros says vengeance does strange things to a mind, and the gift of the Red God does worse. From what we know, the last time you saw her was when you left Winterfell."

"I never left Winterfell," Arya mutters. "Nobody ever really leaves Winterfell, not us Starks anyway. We just wander around, looking for our way back home."

"Aye, that we all do, even the ones who have no home left," he agrees and again lapses into silence.

Arya says finally, "So will you take me to her?"

He sighs, though his bushy eyebrows draw together. "It's been moons since I've seen her meself. Most of us stay away from her. We shiver in the cold and she, well, she just looks for more men to hang. Freys and Lannisters, anyone she thinks betrayed your brother."

"They _did_ betray my brother," Arya answers. "Surely you've heard of the Red Wedding."

"Your Grace," Lem starts and she blinks that he actually uses her title. These are men without banners, she didn't expect him to accept her so quickly. "She doesn't care who was there and who wasn't. Most of the men she has hanged, and some women too, they were guilty only of living in the wrong lands. You need to understand that she isn't Catelyn Tully anymore."

She doesn't care for Lem's tone, the way he seems to avoid meeting her eyes. In her mind, she can still see her beautiful Lady mother with her long red curls pulled back in a braid, her kind smile and compassionate blue eyes. "She's still my mother, Lem. Take me to her," Arya answers through clenched teeth.

Lem complies, fetching himself a horse from the stables who shies away at the sight of the direwolf. Nym's horse is used to the wolf, but she agrees to take one of the horses to avoid scaring the other one. Nymeria bounds into the woods and Arya lets her, knowing she will return when she is needed. The ride is not particularly long, though Lem rides slow.

Past the curve of the river, Arya can smell something rotten that reminds her of sewers and filth. They approach a hill and Arya finally makes out the source of the stench: a pile of bodies piled at the base that fester despite the cold.

Lem stops short and says, "You'll have to go on alone." He gives them quick directions and asks, "Do you want me to wait?"

Arya shakes her head and turns to Nym, "You don't have to come if you don't want to either."

"I go where you go," Nym replies. "And I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to, Your Grace."

She knows Nym only calls her Your Grace when she's trying to ease tension and Arya manages a smile. "Well then, shall we, Lady Nym?" Both get off their horses and make their way above the hill on foot, skirting widely around the pile of bodies. As they head down the other side, she asks quietly, "Did my mother do this?"

"We'll find out soon enough," Nym murmurs in reply, though her nose is wrinkled from the rotting odor.

On the other side of the hill, she finds the cave Lem had told them of at the edge of the river bank. Arya hesitates before she straightens her spine, lets her face relax, and heads straight into the cave. It's dark inside, nothing but a single sputtering torch held between a crack in the stone wall. Arya's vision adjusts and she can make out the back of a cloaked figure hunched on the cold dank soil.

Arya moves forward and the figure stiffens, as though she can sense movement. Swallowing a sudden lump in her throat, Arya manages to croak out, "Mother?"

The hood jerks back and strands of brittle white hair escape from the cloak. She gets to her feet unsteadily and faces her daughter. Arya has to hold back a gasp as she sees what Catelyn Tully has become and behind her, she hears Nym stumble back a step. Her mother's beautiful red curls are gone, half of her missing from her skull, other half sticking out in discolored patches. On her head rests a crown of iron, though it's rusty and laden with dirt. Her eyes are no longer the gleaming blue orbs Sansa shares; now they're veiled over with cataracts, pupils red under them. But it's her throat that Arya cannot stop staring at in horror, at the ragged torn flesh and bloodless innards.

Her mother – it feels perverse thinking of the creature standing before her as _mother,_ an insult to the Lady of Winterfell – moves her hand up to her neck and Arya flinches, hand going automatically to Needle. But she only presses her fingers against the wound and answers in a guttural voice, "Arya."

There is no inflection to her voice, no idea if she is questioning or stating, if she is speaking with love or recognition.

Arya nods, hesitates, then embraces the hunched figure of her mother. When she was a child and hugged her, her mother would run a soothing hand over her hair, let Arya bury her small face in her neck. But now she is nothing but sharp angles and stiff bones in Arya's arms, not responding, not returning, hand still clutching her neck, still and silent like Catelyn Tully would never have been.

She pulls away and studies the woman. "Mother, what happened to you?"

"Death."

The word sends a shiver down Arya's spine. Her instincts tell her to put distance between herself and the unnatural figure standing before her, but she clamps down on the thought and stands her ground. She says, "Gendry told me about… about the Brotherhood and your time with them." When there is no reaction, Arya continues, "Gendry, the blacksmith, Mother. He's Robert Baratheon's eldest natural born son. He's the king. Mother, I married a king."

The woman still doesn't reply, staring dully at Arya.

She suddenly feels incredibly foolish in her crown. She feels a knot in the pit of her stomach as she realizes her mother is no more. She's speaking to Lady Stoneheart. Arya has never held more hatred for the Red God then now, seeing what his magic has done, this gift and this curse. Arya holds back tears threatening her vision and whispers, "Don't you remember me?"

"Arya," she repeats, mechanical and cold.

"Yes, your _daughter_ Arya. Queen Arya. Ugly horseface underfoot Arya," she says forcefully, trying to coax some kind of recognition, some flicker in those dismal eyes. "Sansa's well and alive too, and she stands to inherit the Vale. They've found Rickon. He's at Winterfell. The wolves are returning and they're taking back the North. Mother, please, say something."

But the rigid woman before her only looks on with judgment on her harsh features.

Frustrated, Arya feels the first of her hot tears spilling over her cheekbones. "Mother, we need you. Winterfell needs you and Riverrun needs you. _I_ need you. We need to avenge Robb and Father, and Bran wherever he is. Nym, tell her!"

Silence greets her, both from Lady Stoneheart and from her friend.

A sob wracks Arya's body and she rambles on, regardless of whether or not anyone is listening, "Petyr Baelish is dead, the Lannisters are disgraced, the Boltons have been defeated, and I'll kill every last Frey myself if I have to. Mother, please," she begs, "what more do you want?"

And this husk of a woman, this shell of a gracious beautiful woman who'd once been the Lady of Winterfell and Cat of Riverrun, who raised five children each strong and brave, who joined her son on the battlefield and prayed for her daughters, who commanded a brotherhood at her fingertips, she echoes one last word.

"Death."

By the time Nym helps Arya out of the cave, the sky is dark. Arya's face is set in a hard mask, though tears have left dried streaks on her cheeks. That old familiar bitter taste from her memories is back, weighing down weary shoulders and coating her tongue like its own brand of poison. She holds Needle in her trembling hands, dragging it through the snow, too heavy to lift.

Lady Stoneheart had not bled the second time a blade pierced her skin. 


	7. What A Strange Time

They never do end up finding Greywater Watch. Instead, Howland Reed finds them on the King's Road with a small group of his soldiers – all he has to offer, which Gendry tries to accept graciously. Better than Howland Reed and his offering are his accompaniment by the Mormonts and their party: Maege Mormont, a massive tough looking woman with short hair and a mean look in her dark eyes, and her two daughters, the youngest of whom still looks to be in the awkward stages of growing into a woman. Half of the Mormont party travels on boats to Moat Cailin through Fever River.

Howland Reed hardly leaves Arya's side, riding beside her on the left, though Nym stays on her right. Both of them are better riders than Gendry, who more often than not finds himself falling behind. He can just keep pace with Jorelle Mormont and Steffan Swyft.

So he makes stilted conversation with her that she doesn't seem quite enthusiastic about, asking, "How does a girl as young as you get involved in a war?"

She looks him straight into his eyes, her eyes as dark and hard as her mother, and answers, "A war is nothing, Your Grace. The Starks called for us and we answered. My younger sister's ten and she's ruling Bear Island. "

"How… interesting," Gendry manages to say and returns his attention to his horse. _Northerners_.

They make better time than they had before, now that the storm has cleared, though it's definitely getting colder. Reed seems to know which way to take to arrive faster and avoid the dangers of travelling on marshland and they stray off the King's Road several times. By the time they reach the vicinity of Moat Cailin in the earliest throes of evening, he's exhausted by three days of hard riding.

They stop momentarily to formulate and Gendry catches up with Arya. She smiles at him as he rides up to Nymeria, but it's distracted and just short enough so he knows something's wrong with his wife that she isn't telling him. He's sure it has something to do with Lady Stoneheart, but Arya refuses to talk of the matter.

"Why have we stopped?" he asks.

"Scouts haven't returned yet," Nymeria says. "It's possible Moat Cailin has been compromised."

"By whom?" Arya asks.

"Ironborn, last we knew. It could be Baratheons now if Stannis bothered to send men down here. Or it could still be Freys if they haven't received ravens that Stannis won at Winterfell, which is a possibility since not many from the South have travelled North through the King's Road in a long time. At this point, we've no way of knowing who holds it and how many men they have," Reed says. Despite his small stature, the man still looks competent. "We may be able to overpower them from at the expense of some of our soldiers, but the chances are minimal. Moat Cailin only has weakness from northern attacks and the risk is not mine to take."

It's only when he looks around the circle and notices them all studying him does Gendry realize, _oh, the risk is mine._ He considers, frowning and trying to remember what Varys had told him. "The Causeway's the only safe way through, isn't it?"

Reed raises an eyebrow and his lips curl upward. "There are other ways," he allows carefully. "But these ways belong to crannogmen. They may not be to your liking, Your Grace…"

"Are they dangerous?" Arya interrupts.

"No more than storming a castle held by an unknown House."

Arya meets his eye. He expects her to nod or shake her head, offer some indication of her choice, but her gaze never flickers. Gendry turns to Nym, but she's similarly blank. They're leaving this one up to him and, though the decision may be small in the long run, he finds the weight of being king on his shoulders like a physical ache. He may lose soldiers if they went through the moat, but taking the way of mudmen meant relying absolutely on Reed.

He sighs and agrees curtly, "Let's do it. Lord Reed, you'll need to confer with Lady Nym as she will communicate the directions to the other soldiers."

The two nod and ride away, deep in conversation. Arya looks pleased when she leads Nymeria close to his horse.

"This is what you wanted," Gendry says, even as he becomes aware that it was a test.

"But I wanted you to say it. I trusted you to do the right thing. My father always spoke very fondly of Howland Reed and the man swore he would protect me with every breath he took."

"I noticed," Gendry says. "He hasn't left your side since they joined us."

Arya frowns. "He says I remind him of someone," she hesitates for a moment, "He says he would swear I was a ghost had he not seen the woman die in front of him."

"And that's meant to be a good thing? That you remind him of a dead woman?"

"Not just any dead woman. Lyanna Stark. My father's sister, the one responsible for Robert's Rebellion."

Gendry and Arya are quiet for a moment. Finally, he thinks he's worked up his nerve enough to ask, "Do you want to tell me yet what's been bothering you since you returned from the Crossroads Inn?"

Arya chews on her lip. Finally she leaps off Nymeria and signals him to follow. Clumsily, he dismounts from his horse and she takes his hand, putting distance between themselves and the rest. Off the warmth of his horse, Gendry feels the cold air blow through his furs and he bites back the need to shiver. She heads to a clearing formed by a few willowy trees.

At the edge of brackish water, Arya finally turns to face him. "Gendry, do you love me?"

"Yes," he says automatically, then feels himself blush at how quickly he'd responded. "Do you not? Is that what this is about?"

Arya shakes her head. "Of course not. I just… I need to know you won't change your mind about me. That what I tell you won't change things between us."

"Why would I change my mind? Is it something to do with your mother?"

"That matter's over. You were right when you said she wasn't my mother anymore," Arya says, again shaking her head.

"Then what is it?"

"You've heard rumors right?" Arya asks, her grey eyes boring into his. "Rumors about Starks and their wolves. About Robb and Grey Wind. About- about me. That I'm a warg."

 "Are you?" Gendry asks, his heart suddenly beating faster than it should. He isn't stupid. He knows there's a pack of wolves following them.

She nods and discomfort shows plain in her eyes. "I learned a few days ago, when we are caught in the blizzard. Nym's the only one who knows. And now you do, too." When he doesn't talk, she goes on, "I'm not going to stop doing it, I wanted you to know that much. Nymeria's pack accepts me and it's useful at a distance."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I don't know," she says, looking down and shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "I should've."

Gendry waits until she looks up again before pressing a kiss to her lips, holding her close with both arms and she's warm, wiry strong under her skin. "This doesn't change _anything,_ " he tells her, whispers it into the tiny space of air between them. "I still love you and I always will."

Arya kisses him back, fingers at the laces of his furs so cold air seeps in – but so does her warmth replacing the fabric. "No secrets," she murmurs back.

Damn Moat Cailin and the Night's Watch and all these layers between them, he wants to set up camp here and now and spend the night with Arya in bed. He feels like it's been decades since he's fucked her without any worries, just curled up with her afterwards and inhaled the scent of her skin, fell asleep with his face in the crook her neck.

Someone clearing their throat brings him back to the present. He pulls away and feels the tips of his ears burn, but Arya only turns her head to the intruder and pulls Gendry closer.

Nym, clearly trying to hold back a smile, says, "The soldiers have been briefed, Your Grace. We're leaving soon."

"How soon?" Arya asks.

Gendry's eyes widen when Nym asks with her normal professional attitude, "How much time do you need?"

"Just a few minutes," Arya says and Gendry's mouth drops as Nym grins openly this time.

"I can buy you five minutes of uninterrupted time," she winks and disappears back behind the little thicket of trees.

Returning her attention back to him, she says, "You heard," undoing his breeches, hand finding his cock hard.

"Arya, we shouldn't," he protests weakly, but her tongue flicks out to lick her bottom lip and his resolve is melting.

"Shut up," Arya snaps, kissing him, and he's more than happy to oblige when she pushes him back to the earth. Somehow, her breeches are already undone and she's lowering herself on to him, slick and burning with heat in the chill of the North.

He groans, "Fuck."

Clamping a hand over his mouth, Arya hisses, "They're going to think we're getting attacked."

This time, he has to hold back a laugh.

By the time Nym comes to fetch them again, they're just pulling their furs on. "We're ready to go. Oh, and your hair's a mess," she points to Arya, then adds, "Actually, so is yours, Your Grace."

Arya picks twigs out of his shaggy hair as they rejoin Reed and Maege Mormont, the latter shooting them a vaguely suspicious look.

"Your Grace," Reed approaches them as they climb back up on their mounts. "I was just explaining to the men that you must stay on the path once we enter the woods. There are quick sands and flashing lights – you mustn't stray, no matter what you hear or see. They are illusions and nothing more. By my calculations, we shouldn't run into any of the villages, but travel through the swamp will be slow."

Gendry's grateful for the last bit. If travel is slow, he'll be able to stay by Arya's side. The rest… well, he'll have to deal with it. He's already decided and it's too late to change his mind now. "Well, then lead the way, Lord Reed."

Truly, the swamps are treacherous and travel is halted constantly: one of the men's horses falls in the water and has to be pulled out, one of the archers gallops away to chase the vision of a beautiful woman, one of the Mormont soldiers outright vanishes into fog as thick as sleet and when the air clears, he is nowhere to be seen. Arya, Nym, and Gendry stick close to each other, Maege following them within sight and the soldiers commanded to stay as near as possible. Other than the missing scouts, Reed assures them they will have no need to send any of the others off alone, either behind or forward. Their party struggles to keep straight forward on the path.

When they emerge on the other end to solid ground of the King's Road, Gendry breathes a deep sigh of relief. The swamps had been suffocating. Nymeria does a round and, upon return, announces that only three men had not made it out of the swamp. Most of them seem spooked, save Reed's men, but they would manage to go on to Winterfell.

"We aren't going on to Winterfell," Gendry says, to everyone's surprise. "We have to go back. Whoever holds Moat Cailin holds the only causeway to the North – and if our scouts went missing, surely these men are not friendly. Lord Tyrell will be coming up through this very road. We need to take back the moat."

There is only a small moment of silence before Maege Mormont has spoken, "We will divide into three parties, one for each of the towers. Each will need archers, swordsmen, and a smaller team of scouts who will attempt to sneak into the tower undetected through the back and catch the soldiers in these towers unawares. Lady Nym, I suspect you know well enough how to divide them."

"Of course," Nym nods.

"All three parties will need a lead," Mormont continues. "My daughters and I shall take one to the Children's Tower, and Lord Reed the second to Drunkard's Tower."

"Is the third for me?" Gendry blurts, then blinks and adds, "Nym and I can lead the third."

"Not without me, stupid," Arya growls.

"What?" Gendry turns to her. "No. No, you have to stay safe. You're the Queen."

Arya only rolls her eyes and asks Mormont, "Or will Reed's party need me more?"

"Arya!" Gendry insists.

"If I don't go, you don't either. A king's duty is to fight by his soldiers, and a queen is no more exempt from it than he is."

The others must realize it is not their place to interfere and hold their tongues as Gendry replies, "And if something happens to you? What will I tell Jon, that I let his sister storm Moat Cailin and I wasn't even there to protect her."

Arya's jaw clenches. "I thought we were past this," she says quietly. Gendry swallows hard and Arya must see something in his expression that she says, "What if I don't go myself, but…" she trails off before saying in a rush, "Nymeria goes instead of me."

"Nymeria? You want her to go in your place?" Nym asks, her eyes flicking to the direwolf sitting on her haunches. Suddenly, realization dawns on her face, "Oh."

"Girl, you're a warg?" Mormont asks abruptly.

Arya looks uneasy and exchanges a glance with Gendry, but she answers honestly, "Yes, my lady."

Mormont chuckles, deep and rich in her throat. "You Starks. I should've known. My youngest has been skinchanging into a she-bear since she was just a wee little lass. Eyes rolled back while the beast thunders through the castle."

The others look stunned, but Arya immediately demands, "There are other skinchangers? In Westeros?"

Mormont only smiles ruefully and says, "Your wolf should go with Reed's party. Now I suggest we quit wasting time and get on with this attack before night falls."

 ...

Arya has missed Winterfell. Oh, how she has missed it. The hulking outer stone walls, the abandoned Broken Tower with its fire-licked crumbling brick, the Godswood filled with snow and steam, the Glass Gardens that are always warm and inviting. Arya races ahead of the others, leaving even Nym behind in her haste. Gendry and she have been more at ease with each other since she admitted everything to him, but she doesn't have the patience to wait for him either. She arrives at the East Gate far before the others are even visible on the King's Road. There is only a single guard, wearing Baratheon colors of yellow and black, and he stares at her as she rides up on Nymeria.

"Go on," she shouts up at him, "Open the gates!"

The man lets out a choked sound and stutters, "I-Is that a d-direwolf?"

"Yes, and I'm the Queen!" Arya answers.

"So is it a just a normal wolf then?" he asks.

Arya raises an eyebrow. "Are you thick in the head? It really is a direwolf."

"Oh, and I suppose you really are the Queen?"

"Shall I fetch my crown and prove it to you?" she demands. "I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I'm the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And if you don't have this gate open by the time the King and the rest of my men get here, I'll string you up naked in the courtyard."

Nymeria lets loose a magnificent deafening howl at just the right timing that is joined by a similar sound from the other side of the gates. _Shaggydog,_ Arya thinks and rejoices. Shaggydog meant Rickon.

Looking both terrified and disbelieving, the guard scrambles for the lever of the gate and finally, _finally_ Arya's into Winterfell with the familiar sights of the Northern capital around her. As Nymeria heads straight to the castle, thundering past the roads and the houses lining the cobblestone road, Arya catches only small glimpses of people shouting and pointing, cheering. Some scream her name before the wind drowns them out.

Arya doesn't stop until she reaches the Great Keep, where she promptly jumps off Nymeria and heads straight past the surprised guards into the castle. She knows where the seat is, familiar enough with her father seated on the beautifully carved intricate throne to ever forget. Outside the hall where the throne of Winterfell rests, Arya can hear noises, though the thick wooden door is closed. Wrenching it open, Arya marches straight in with her spine straight and her chin held high.

The first thing she hears is Rickon's voice, still childish, yelling, "Arya! You're back!"

Another moment later, he has leapt off the throne and launched into her arms, laughing with childish glee and squeezing tightly with his hands around her back. Arya realizes how much taller she is than Rickon, who's six years younger, and kneels to the floor so she's a head below, still hugging him tightly.

When she looks up to take stock, there are only a few people present in the hall: a scattering of servants, and a man with pale hair standing behind Rickon. He bows when he notices her eyes on him. "Your Grace, I am the ruling regent of Winterfell, Justin Massey. I have been instructed by His G- by Stannis Baratheon to guide Rickon Stark until he comes of age."

Arya straightens and holds out her hand for him to kiss. "I appreciate that you have looked out for my brother, Ser, but your services will no longer be needed."

Massey frowns. "I beg your pardon, but I cannot be dismissed without- I mean…" he stops speaking, at a loss.

"I know. What a strange time, isn't it. Stannis has declared himself king, but how can that be when _I'm_ married to the king? You know, the one who actually sits on the Iron Throne."

Eyebrows pulling together, Massey says, "If you'll excuse me for saying so, he's doing the realm more good by actually fighting in a war against the darkness than you are sitting lazily on a throne in King's Landing."

In a single move, Arya pulls Rickon behind her and draws Needle. Massey's hand has only reached the hilt of his own sword when Arya's blade is at his throat. "Ser Massey, I will excuse all that you have said out of loyalty and passion, but I will not hear any more insults, is that understood?"

Massey squeaks in affirmation. The servants look scandalized.

Behind her, she hears the noises of the rest of her party reaching the castle, of footsteps and clanking armor. Arya swiftly sheathes Needle and says, "Act civil."

She turns just in time to see Gendry walking in, saying, "Ah, there you are! We were wondering where you'd flown off to."

Arya manages a smile as Gendry joins her and turns to Massey. "This is Ser Justin Massey."

Pleasantries are exchanged. Massey bows and mumbles something where the only thing decipherable is "Your Grace," and when he straightens, Arya can see his eyes looking over their party, mentally counting how many more they brought, lingering on Nym a moment too long. He licks his lips and says, "A pleasure to welcome you to Winterfell."

Gendry nods and turns to Rickon, bowing to talk to him. "You must be the little wolf, Rickon Stark, isn't that right?"

Arya holds back a smile as Rickon stares up at Gendry with wide blue eyes, with something akin to admiration. "Are you the king?" he asks.

Gendry answers but Arya's attention is drawn to Reed, who is quietly asking Massey, "It's awful empty in Wintertown for the season. Where are the lords and ladies of the court? Where's Bran? Where are my children?"

"Lord Stannis took any man of fighting age to the Wall. We never found Bran Stark, I'm afraid. As for the court-" Massey shrugs, "-when we defeated Roose Bolton, the ones who aided us from the inside left nearly immediately after. Possibly to the Wall. Stannis is losing support from the northern houses since Arya and Sansa Stark reappeared."

"And you?" Gendry asks. "Are you coming with us to the Wall?"

"His G- Lord Stannis has commanded me to stay in Winterfell with his daughter and Rickon Stark."

"Shireen's here?"

Massey nods. "He wanted the heir as far away from the Others as possible."

"He didn't fear attack from the South? There are hardly enough men here to fight off our party, let alone the men marching only a few days behind us." Arya points out. "That's not good planning at all, is it, if he wanted the apparent _heir_ away from danger."

Massey looks plainly uncomfortable. "With the Boltons defeated, he didn't much fear the North. He trusted them to support Rickon. And after your raven, he knew the South would not march to Winterfell with plans of violence."

Arya has to give Stannis that much. He'd known with confidence that Arya wouldn't let any harm come to her little brother. When she thinks it over, it actually _was_ good planning. With the exception of only the truly cowardly (her mind thinks of Theon), no northerner would betray the Starks and Sansa and she would ensure no southerner did either.

Rickon tugs at Arya's armor and she looks down at him. "Would you like to see Osha again?" he asks.

"Osha's with you?"

"She's the one who protected me in Skagos. Now she's Shireen's handmaiden."

"You can meet all of them at supper," Massey quickly adds. "The Great Hall has been cleaned and prepared for a feast to welcome you all. The chambers have been stocked and servants assigned to each one. If you will follow the servants and maids, they'll prepare baths for you to freshen up before nightfall." He signals and the waiting servants step forward.

As they all divide and head off their own ways, Arya leans up on her tip toes and whispers in Gendry's ear, "How does Stannis still have a claim? You're Robert's natural born son and all these houses have declared for us!"

"Arrogance," Gendry murmurs back.

"So I suppose all you Baratheon's are the same, huh?" she teases.

Gendry swats at her and she dances away easily. The servant holds back a smile as he brings them to their chambers. Before he can leave, Gendry thanks the man.

"Have you been here long?" Arya asks conversationally. "Are you a northman?"

"Your Grace, I arrived under Lady Dustin's banners quite some time ago. When Stannis Baratheon marched from the Wall against the Boltons, I was one of the men who ran from the castle and joined him."

 _So he won't be loyal to Stannis,_ Arya realizes. _More so to me, anyway._ "What happened to the Dustins? And the other northern houses who were with Bolton."

"Most turned against him. They were never truly on his side, but the threat of the Bolton alliance with the Freys and Lannisters – and the fear that he would hurt Jeyne Poole – kept them pretending. They took their forces to the Wall when the Lord Commander asked for assistance."

Gendry crosses his arms. "And my nuncle? What can you tell me about him?"

The servant considers before he finally says, "He's a just man, but not a popular one. I would be wary of this Red God he praises. From what I understand, he is not beyond sacrificing men to satiate the flames at his priestess's command."

"I've seen what the Red God can do," Arya mutters. Impulsively, she turns to rifle through her pack and finds a ring, an intricate band of gold one of the southern Lords had gifted her as a wedding gift, set with rubies. "Here," she says, holding it out to him.

The servant hesitates. "Your Grace…"

"Take it," she commands.

Bowing, he accepts the token and says, "It's good to have the Starks back."

After he leaves, Gendry takes off his heavy furs and shoots her an appraising look. "That was smart. Making an informant out of him like that."

Arya nods, though that had never been her intent. She'd only wanted to reward him for giving them a fair warning. "How long do we plan to stay before heading to the Wall?" she asks, slumping back on the bed, sighing with the familiar feel of Winterfell's thick stone walls around her like armor.

"We should go as soon as possible. What about this feast? Do you think Massey has anything planned?"

Shaking her head, she says, "He's going to try and figure out how well Stannis's claim holds up against us, if anything. Maybe he'll try to convince me to let him remain in Winterfell as the ruling regent, but once Sansa and Harrold get here, he has no chance. So the feast should be good food and ale. Nothing too tricky. Wear your crown."

"And you, m'lady," Gendry says, leaning down to kiss her and pressing her back into the goosefeather mattress, "Should wear a gown of yellow befitting a Baratheon queen."

She bites his lip and whispers, "I'm a Stark in Winterfell, and I'll be wearing grey and black befitting a Stark queen."

Gendry laughs but doesn't argue, and his hands are under her tunic as he's telling her, "I don't care what you dress in as long as I'm the one who takes it off you after."

And that's perfectly fine with her.


	8. Dead As In Proper Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who has been following this story (despite my ridiculously long hiatus!) for your comments and encouragements. I apologize for the delay, I finished up my finals before working on this. I hope you all enjoy! :)

The Wall is freezing _._ Actually literally  _freezing_. They barely make it to the gates of Castle Black's entrance and already Gendry can't feel his toes and fingers, and his entire face has gone so numb he isn't even sure if he can speak. For once, Arya rides beside him, close as Nymeria can get without spooking the horses. As they wait for the gate to rise, Gendry tucks his gloved hands into the deep pockets of his furs, thankful the wind was no longer blowing in his face but wishing they were still moving and somewhat warm by distraction. Their last stop had been in Mole's Town and it's been too long since he'd been under shelter.

He pretends not to care that the others seem to be coping so much better than him. The Mormonts seem hardly affected, and Nym has her hood pulled up so tight around her face, only her eyes are visible. Arya, of course, only seems to look more beautiful in the north, her hair the color of the bare trees and her skin losing the slightest tan she developed in King's Landing to match the snow swirling in the air.

Their horses spur forward and the gate shuts behind them. Ahead waits a small group of the Night's Watch's men on foot, among them Jon Snow, Arya's half-brother and the Lord Commander. The horses come to a stop as well as Arya's direwolf, and he dismounts despite being incapable of feeling his legs. Somehow he manages to land on both feet and step forward.

A man Gendry presumes to be Jon Snow, dark hair and pale skin and the same deep grey eyes as Arya, holds out a hand. "Welcome to the Wall, Your Grace," he says.

Gendry has only time enough to meet hands before he draws them back again as Jon's attention shifts to the figure rapidly approaching Jon. Another moment later, Arya is tackling Jon in an embrace hard enough that both stagger back, though neither breaks their grip over the other.

When they part, Gendry catches a glimpse of her joy. Arya's grin seems prepared to split her face in half. Even Jon, who had initially looked somber, is smiling warmly.

To Gendry, he says, "Come, Your Grace. The men will take care of the horses and your soldiers." Jon gestures and they all head to the Common Hall, sighing in relief as they finally escape the relentless brutal howling of the wind. Jon speaks briefly to Maege before he raises a finger to them and returns back out into the fury of the storm, followed by his guards, leaving Gendry, Arya, Nym, and the Mormont women alone in the Hall.

Gendry heads straight for the fire flickering in the hearth, drawn to the warmth of the orange flame like a moth. He drops to his haunches and doesn't bother taking off his gloves as he holds his hands as close as he can without burning the leather.  Arya joins him a moment later.

"Do you think we did the right thing?" she asks. "Leaving Reed with Rickon and Shireen?"

Only when the tip of his nose tingles with sensation does he answer, "Lord Reed is more than capable of holding his own. And he'll be sure to join us as soon as Sansa arrives to relieve him."

"Right, which is another problem, of course."

Shaking his head, Gendry gets to his feet and pulls Arya close. "Your sister knows that she'll do more good in Winterfell than at the Wall. You've left explicit instructions that she will be the regent until Rickon is of age. Whether Harrold chooses to stay with her or come to the Wall is his decision."

"And where exactly on the damned King's Road has Tarly gotten lost?" Arya says, lines appearing on her forehead.

"Just that," Maege Mormont guffaws from her place on the bench where Nym and her daughters are seated. "Lost. Southerners seem to think it's all smooth road and sunshine up here."

"It's a long way and he's got a much larger force than us," Gendry says, unsure why he's defending Tarly at all, but going on. "Remember when we got stalled for a whole week? You can expect him to take twice as long as us."

"They should have travelled with ravens plenty," Nym adds in a muffled voice, getting off the bench and finally loosening her hood as she nears the fire. "I'm sure if something was wrong, we would receive some indication that they were in trouble or needed help. Especially now that we've reclaimed Moat Cailin for them, they should make better time."

"And then left the fucking Moat in the hands of Steffan Swyft," Gendry mutters just loud enough for Arya to hear and smirk.

Jon returns then, and by his side is a tall woman robed in a long crimson gown and nothing more. Just looking at her makes Gendry nearly shiver but she doesn't look the least bit cold. As they near, to his surprise, Gendry notices the air warm perceptibly. Mormont's eyes follow her suspiciously the whole way.

She stops just short of them and raises her lips in something resembling a smile. "Gendry Baratheon and Arya Stark," she says softly, almost wondrously. "I had seen a blacksmith with a crown on his head in my visions, but never had I thought it would be Stannis's own nephew."

"And you are?" Arya cuts in sharply, both she and Nym standing close so their shoulders are nearly touching.

The woman's eyes flick to Arya and she raises an eyebrow. "Melisandre of Asshai, my lady," she says, her head lowering but her spine remaining unbent, and Gendry notices she doesn't call her  _your grace_. "No one more than a humble priestess of the Red God."

At her last two words, Gendry can practically feel Arya tense beside him. A muscle in her jaw twitches. Gendry quickly takes her hand and says, "My lady, your reputation precedes you. We've heard tales of you in King's Landing."

"Even I am not naïve enough to think what you've heard is all good," Melisandre muses. "But I can assure you that the things I have done have been in service of R'hollor and Azor Ahai reborn."

"We aren't strangers to the work of the Red God," Arya spits through clenched teeth, snatching her hand out of Gendry's.

Jon frowns and starts, "Arya-"

Arya glares at him and he hesitates, allowing her the moment to say, "Death is not a game for the Red God to play with, bringing back life on a whim."

"Arya!" Jon is louder this time in reprimand.

But still, Melisandre drowns him out with her accented voice, "And pray tell, who  _can_  play with death? Arya Stark, the queen? Or the skinchanger inside her? Or the Faceless Braavosi she was for years before?"

Jerking back as though she had been struck, Arya falls silent. The hall is fraught with tension, the Mormonts staring silently at the spectacle. Gendry has a sudden desperate desire for Varys to be here, to guide him, whisper him the right words to say, the right thing to do to keep peace between his wife and the priestess.

It's Nym who speaks instead, careful and firm, "This journey has been long and tiring for us all. Perhaps rest and supper are in order before we discuss more serious matters."

Melisandre fixes her gaze on Nym for the first time, eyes widening slightly. "My lady, I have not yet had the pleasure of an introduction."

"Nymeria Sand, second daughter of Oberyn Martell of Dorne and eldest daughter of the tiger triarch of Volantis," Nym bows and adds, "Head of King Gendry Baratheon's guard and advisor in the small council."

"Your skin burns with old blood," Melisandre murmurs. "A noblewoman of Volantis, first daughter of Valyria and queen of the Rhoyne."

"We should show our guests to their chambers," Jon interrupts. "Lady Nymeria is right; the journey is long from King's Landing and there are trying times ahead. We live in constant danger of attack. At least once a day we have sightings of wights and we are ever closer to the threat of the Others. It is best to get rest when one can."

Jon leads a still-seething Arya outside. Gendry throws one last look back at Melisandre, deep in conversation with Nym, before he follows them out into the blistering cold. They pass by men in clothes of the Night's Watch, a crumbling tower leaning on its side, and what looks like an abandoned smithy before they enter another tower that shows no signs of decay. Jon still doesn't talk, resolutely leading them up a long flight of stairs, twisting and turning until they reach what must be the very top. There is only one door on this landing and Jon throws it open so hard, it bounces against the stone wall.

Immediately inside, Jon turns to Arya. "What  _was_ that?" His voice echoes in the large empty chambers.

"What was what?" she demands without backing down.

"You, in there, arguing against Melisandre about the Red God. What was that supposed to be? A display of your newfound power as queen gone to your head?"

"Of all the people in Westeros accusing me of throwing my weight around, I can't believe you're the one to actually go and fucking say it," Arya just about growls at Jon, standing at her full height and glaring at him like Gendry can't ever recall.

"What you did in there was uncalled for."

"You don't know anything, Jon!"

There is a pause. Gendry holds his tongue, knowing it is not his place to speak between brother and sister. Instead, he casts his gaze over the chambers they've entered, pretending to be interested in the large bed and desk, the nailed shut window.

Finally, slowly, Jon takes a step back to give her room and says in a taut voice, "Then tell me, Your Grace."

Arya's eyes narrow. She glances at Gendry, grey eyes brimming with – with uncertainty? – before taking a deep breath.  "I served R'hllor in Braavos. When I was faceless."

"That is hardly Melisandre's fault."

"I've seen what that faith does to a person!" she snaps. "Playing with death like they do, they ruined my life, they've probably ruined Stannis and-" Arya's voice catches for a moment and Gendry nearly reaches out to touch her, but she goes on "-and Mother, Jon. The Red God-"

"Brought me back to life," Jon interrupts her quietly.

Silence. Gendry feels a shock run down his spine that has nothing to do with the cold. He stares at the dark haired man, wondering if the Lord Commander had misspoken, wondering if he'd heard incorrectly. Did he really…

"What _?_ " Arya spits.

"I died. Melisandre gave me the kiss and brought me back to life. That was R'hllor," Jon turns to Gendry and nods. "I was going to tell you both at a better time. You might as well find out now, from me. The brothers killed me in a scuffle against Selyse Baratheon's men, when Stannis was laying siege to Winterfell. I was dead for days."

"You… died?" Arya whispers, looking horrified. She abruptly throws her arms around him. "Jon, oh gods, you  _died?_ "

He hugs her back, closes his eyes and whispers something. Gendry feels like an intruder, torn between wanting to question further or wait for the conversation to go on. He averts his gaze and makes his way to the bed, tempted to get under the covers and warm his freezing toes. He sits on the edge of the mattress and focuses on the fact that Jon Snow had died and been resurrected, like Beric, like Lady Stoneheart. Did Stannis know? Did his nuncle approve? He thinks back to the rumor he'd heard, that Stannis had been responsible for Renly's death. He thinks of Sansa in the council, assuring them that Stannis would never violate guest right by slaughtering them. But of course, if he really had been behind Renly's death, what was an estranged bastard nephew?

"Your Grace?" Gendry realizes Jon is talking to him. He stands back up much too quickly and nods to them. "Melisandre thinks I'm Azor Ahai reborn, er – I'm not quite sure what the stories are, just the bits she's told me. But it means that I have her unquestioning loyalty. It's why she chose to stay at Castle Black with me instead of leaving with Stannis. I want you to know that. And  _you_  as well, Arya," Jon adds. "She's not our enemy. There are worse things out there. She's definitely right about one thing: the night is fucking full of terrors."

"The Others?" Gendry asks. "We came as soon as we received your raven."

Jon nods grimly. "The last scout we sent out must have come across Others. They returned a few days later as dead men."

"Not dead in the way you are?" Arya asks. "Dead as in proper dead?"

"Dead as in blue eyes and black hands and no sensation of pain," Jon confirms. "The only way we were able to kill them was fire. We were receiving reports of more attacks in the other towers. That was when Stannis chose to go to Eastwatch with his hired Essosi men."

"And Shadow Tower?" Gendry tried to remember the geography maps Varys had told him to memorize. "Who's guarding the towers in the west?"

"The Greyjoys. Asha Greyjoy and Alysane Mormont took a force of Northern houses and some of the free folk. Asha said she would try to convince the Ironborn to join her."

"You said Greyjoys," Arya says quietly. When Jon doesn't reply, she prompts, "Jon?"

Almost grudgingly, he murmurs, "Theon went with them."

The siblings exchange a long look that Gendry doesn't understand. He had heard much about Theon Turncloak, who'd been blamed for the sack of Winterfell until they'd realized it was Ramsay Snow (well, he supposed it was Bolton now – or was it? Tommen was no longer king; did his decree still stand?) who'd probably influenced the decision. He realizes abruptly that Arya and Jon had probably grown up with him, regarded him as a brother.

"What does that mean for us?" Gendry asks.

"It means Asha has either a higher chance of convincing the Ironborn if they recognize Theon as Balon's heir, which is unlikely since he didn't win any kingsmoots, or it means her chance are drastically lowered if she is seen supporting her cowardly brother. Either way, we need all the help we can get. The number of dead wights has increased drastically this last month – probably free folk who didn't come south with the rest. It's getting bad. We think the Others may be preparing for an attack or something worse."

Arya nods. "In which case, we'd better hope Tarly gets here soon."

Jon frowns but makes no comment. Instead, he says, "You should rest. We'll meet to strategize tomorrow morning. The brothers should already be telling your people how things work here. You'll have your supper soon. I should get going; we're divvying up the last of the swords and obsidian daggers to the free folks coming from the New Gift to fight for us. And Arya? It really is good to see you again, little sister." Jon wraps her into a hug again and Arya laughs, returning the embrace.

When they part, Arya points to the window nailed shut. "Can I open that?"

"Do you know cold it is up here?"

"Really, Jon?"

Jon shrugs. "Sure. Selyse Baratheon stayed here before you and she preferred it that way, but if you want, I'll send someone to take out the nails."

"I can do it myself," Arya grumbles, turning to examine the nails.

With her attention diverted, Jon gestures at Gendry and nods to the door. Taking the hint, Gendry follows Jon out. They walk a few steps down before Jon says, "I expect you've been treating my sister with the utmost respect."

"Of course I have," he answers, somewhat distraught anyone would think otherwise.

Jon smiles, but it's tense and his voice is taut, "Yes, yes, I know you have. She'd have disemboweled you by now if not. I also know that when it comes down to actual fighting, there's nothing in the world that can hold her back – not that I'd want to, you understand. From what I hear, she's quite skilled with a sword and we need as many fighters as we can manage. It's not a decision I make lightly and certainly not as her brother, but as the Lord Commander. Anyone who worked for the Faceless Men as long as she, would know how to handle their own with a blade."

Gendry nods. "I reckon she could beat me if we ever sparred."

"Right, that's the thing. Your sword, the one you inherited from Tommen-"

"Widow's Wail?" Gendry asks. It was in his pack with his hammer and the rest of his weapons. He knew how to wield it, of course. His time among the Brotherhood without Banners had taught him that much. He still preferred his hammer.

Jon nods, "Widow's Wail. I want you to give it to Arya."

"Arya has a sword," Gendry says slowly. "Needle. It's a skinny thing but she's good with it." And she was. Gendry had seen her practicing with it often enough, slashing and twisting until the blade was indistinguishable from her arm, moving with the same grace as Arya herself. Arya said it was like doing needlework while dancing.

Jon hesitates. When he speaks, his words come out in a long unpracticed rush, "Widow's Wail was made from my father's sword, Ice. It's one of the last swords remaining in Westeros of Valyrian Steel and it can kill Others. I respect you, Gendry, but you need to give the sword to Arya. If you must hide from her why, then do so."

He understands then. He understands why Jon has made the request. Immediately, Gendry agrees, nodding as he says, "She'll put it to better use than me anyway. I fight with a hammer."

This time when Jon smiles, he looks several years younger, almost boyish, and Gendry realizes they're all still children playing at war. He goes back up to Arya before she wonders where he is.

...

Arya still has that awful nagging feeling she's left something behind in King's Landing when she had packed. For what must be the thousandth time since they'd left the Red Keep, she runs through a list of essentials in her head and again finds nothing missing. It's an irritation more than anything; an itch rather than a festering wound.

And she's bigger things to worry about anyway. Things like Melisandre and her ominous prophetic warnings that  _they_ were coming very soon. When asked about who "they" were, she replied with vague mutterings about blistering thunder and roaring storm, about an image yet to be formed. The only thing R'hollor showed the priestess was death and burning towers.

"That can mean anything," Arya complains as they sit in the Great Hall after a long practice session with Arya's newly received sword. The red rubies and lion carving angers her, but she takes comfort that this blade was once her fathers. Despite the freezing temperature, she's sweating in her armor and under the layers and layers of cold she and Gendry bustle up in. She thinks she doesn't need them, but Jon says frostbite sneaks up unawares.

"We'll find out soon enough," Gendry mutters beside her.

He looks more at ease since they've been at the Wall. They both do. There are no overbearing servants and court members here to scrutinize their every behavior, no one directing their movements. The members of the kingsguard stay distanced. Even the men of the Night's Watch leave them alone, save for in the practicing grounds. Arya thinks she might miss Taena, but mostly she just appreciates getting to run on Nymeria, learning how to use her new sword with Nym, and curling in with Gendry at night alone in the King's Tower. It would be almost ideal if it weren't for the atmosphere: constantly tense, churlish, men expecting to die any day. And of course, for Jon, who seems stressed and snaps far too easily.

Arya huffs as she rakes her fingers through sweat-soaked hair, leaving short strands sticking up that makes Gendry chuckle at her. "Do you think Tarly's made it to Winterfell yet? Or Sansa?"

Gendry shrugs. "Without a raven, it's difficult to know. They may still be at Moat Cailin."

She chews her lower lip and considers. "What if the Wall is attacked before any of the reinforcements arrive? Jon and Melisandre think an attack is eminent and I know Jon's worried he sent too many people to Shadow Tower and some of the other castles along the Wall."

"Nothing much has been going on for the past few days," Gendry observes. "Maybe we've time yet."

"Maybe," Arya says without much hope. "Or maybe the Others are waiting for us to get our guard down before attacking."

"If Melisandre's right and the Great Other is an intelligent force, that's something we'll have to account for in battle. At least the Wall's on our side." Gendry hesitates for a moment and Arya raises an eyebrow, prompting him to continue, "She says the Wall's alive. That it's going to help us when the Others come."

Arya scoffs. "I am willing to listen to her for saving my brother's life. Past that, I cannot stand to hear her nonsense. Even when I was Faceless, I never encountered an object that helped me kill of it's own volition. All her talk does is convince soldiers that their life will be saved by anything other than their wits and blades. Everyone's cold and miserable and she sits there in the Commander's Keep with flames high enough to burn the towers down. Maybe that's her bloody prophecy."

"You're really got it out for her, haven't you?" Gendry says mildly.

Glaring at him, Arya pushes off the bench. Before she can reply, a long loud wailing startles both Gendry and Arya. They stare at each other frozen as the sound comes again, and hold their breath when it stops the second time, waiting anxiously and knowing what the third sound would mean. As soon as the horn starts a third time, both are thinking the same word: Others. As one, they head to the door of the Hall.

Arya hisses, "Where's Nym?"

"In the vaults. I think she said she was going to the library after practice."

"Fuck. Where are our armors? Up in our chambers?" Arya demands as she throws the thick wooden door open, biting wind rushing in.

Beside her, Gendry nearly stumbles in his haste to catch up with her. "They're in the Armory," he says.

Outside, it's as though an errant child has kicked over an anthill. Arya scans the running men for Nym or one of the Mormont women, but all she can make out are scrambling black clothes, scared faces, green boys and grizzled men alike. A few moments later, men from Gendry's guard are running to them.

"We must get you to safety, your grace," a first begins.

"No!" Arya snaps. "We're going to join the fighting. We're going to follow the Lord Commander's orders."

"She's right," Gendry agrees beside her.

Another moment later, Arya realizes Jon's voice is carrying out to in the wind. She heads for the courtyard where other brothers of the Watch are gathering, where Jon is standing at the center. His face is grim by the time Arya catches his words.

"Every group will take one area of the wall. We don't know if there are more wights on their way, but from what we can see, they're nothing we can't handle. Stand tall, brothers! This Wall and the Brothers have held back dangers from Westeros for centuries and we can do so again. Remember your vows! I am the sword in the darkness; I am the watcher on the walls…"

Others pick up the words and Arya catches Jon's eyes. He nods at her but continues until their chant is finished. Only when he snaps, "Dismissed!" do the men scatter once before. Jon heads to Arya and Gendry and says, "You both may not be of much use up on the Wall."

"Jon, I can shoot a flaming arrow from the top of the Wall and hit a man between the eyes, just so. I can aim better than the children you call your brothers," Arya insists, then realizes abruptly her accent carried an Essosi lilt in it, forgetting in her fervor that she no longer lived in Braavos or shot men between the eyes. She bites down on her lower lip hard enough to hurt, reminding herself she's Arya Stark, and adds, "I may not know any strategy, but trust me, you're going to need me up there."

Jon looks reluctant, but then his face hardens and Arya can feel the palpable change in his stance as he stands taller and looks straight into her eyes with authority. "Join the second wave of men. Tell them the Lord Commander sent you to be the first archer. You have five minutes before you go up the Wall with them."

Arya nods curtly as Jon – no, the Lord Commander – turns and walks away. She gestures at Gendry. "You're coming with me."

He points at two men from his guard and says, "Help the queen into her armor, and you into mine."

Shaking her head, Arya answers, "Armor's dead weight up there. I'll need my bow."

She stares hard at the men until one stutters, "I-I'll get it, your grace," and scrambles away quickly in the snow.

"In four minutes!" Arya calls after him and says to the others, "Don't follow us up. There won't be any need for you. Look for Lady Nym instead."

Within those four minutes, Arya has her bow, and she and Gendry have found the second wave of men, barely a dozen. They join them on the winch elevator and if the men are surprised by the queen and king's appearance, they say nothing. The majority of them carry bows and torches flickering in the wind, barrels of oil, and one man clutches his pendant close as if the bark from a weirwood tree would give him strength.

They're scared, Arya realizes as she strings her bow. She glances toward her husband, at his lips flattened into a line, back too straight, hands formed into fists, and the idea that Gendry would be scared has never even occurred to her until she realizes it's true, that he is. She is not scared. Her blood is pounding hot in her veins but she is calm and controlled. Neither the cold, nor the panic pervading other men, reaches her.

By the time they reach the top of the Wall, where the wind is howling with fury and spit would sooner freeze in your mouth, she has only a single purpose on her mind. There is a man directing them to the left; Arya catches a glimpse of Jon to the right before she obeys and walks straight into the wind. She's aware of every detail; Gendry's footsteps crunching in the snow behind her, the sway of massive catapults trembling with the force of the wind, the torches embedded every few steps and vats of oil already set to boil. She hazards a look over the Wall. Tiny specks of dead creatures crowd around the Wall, clawing and some succeed in climbing by their nails. Her breath catches in her throat, the first weakness she's shown since the baying of the horns. There must be  _thousands_ of wights, if not more. And still they come crawling out of the treeline. Arya hadn't known there were even that many left alive Beyond the Wall.

Arya takes a deep breath, flexing her fingers, and draws an arrow from her quiver. She touches it to the flame and the kerosene slathered on the head catches ablaze immediately. She nocks it carefully. Snow flies into her face, bringing tears to her eyes and she has to blink several times before she can take clear aim at one of the wights, moving slowly toward the glinting ice of the Wall. Arya licks her lips and lets loose, and the arrow flies straight into the wight's skull, bursting into flame upon impact.

From that moment forward, time became a blur.

She forgets how many arrows she nocks, how many times her quiver is filled by the dark-haired man behind her, how many times she draws back her arm and feels the burn of it in her muscles, how many arrows connect with dead flesh. She forgets her name. She forgets who she is. Her head clears, save for the mission. There is always a wight within her sight.

Swift as a deer. Quiet as shadow. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. Then man who fears losing has already lost.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

There is no girl; she is a weapon, with limitless arrows and the flame beside her burning steady.

Exhaustion vanishes, cold disappears. Hours fly like her arrows, with barely a _twang_ , whistling through the air even before senses can comprehend in a flash of orange.

Then she reaches out and her hands close over air. Her concentration falters. She twists her body and growls for "More arrows," but she meets intense blue eyes grabbing at both of her shoulders.

"Arya, snap out of it!" the voice reaches her ears slow. She shakes her head and opens her mouth, but the blue eyes are peering at her and she forgets her next words. He continues to yell, "There aren't any more left! Jon's called the second wave back down."

Cold pours over her like honey, like molasses being poured over her senses, then she is hit with it  _suddenly_. Arya gasps and jerks back from Gendry's touch. Her shoulders throb with pain where his fingers are digging in, her back and neck stiff. She lets the bow drop from her aching fingers, bloody from flesh rubbed raw. Her legs tremble and she can't feel her skin. The wind is nearly deafening, driving icy pins into her face.

Shivering, she lets Gendry wrap her in his arms and help guide her back to the winch elevator, surrounded by other men from the second wave. One gives her a long admiring look and Arya tries to recall what would elicit such admiration, but all she remembers is the pull and tug of her bow, the focus of wights as they burned below.

Arya doesn't say anything, only lets Gendry lead her blindly forward, trusting him to take her to the right place. Her bones feel weighed down with snow lodged into her hair and the blood sticky on her hands.

 _Arya Stark,_ she thinks.  _My name is Arya Stark. I am not faceless._

Distantly, she hears a howling, then a familiar tone talking to Gendry. She curls up closer to his chest. She cannot keep her eyes open, lids falling into the same darkness as her mind. Someone is picking her up, carrying her close to their body heat, laying her down across soft sheets. Her hands are submerged in warm water, cleaning the blood, and she sighs as the covers are drawn up over her drained body.

It takes her mere moments to pass into a deep undisturbed sleep, nestled into the fur of her direwolf.

She dreams of being a wolf, racing over icy ground until she takes a leap into the air and is an arrow, flying unbidden across the night sky with her entire being on fire, burning and blazing until her body is a heap of ashes and her thoughts are scorched beyond recognition.

Arya jerks awake. It takes her a few seconds to realize she isn't alone on the bed. Nymeria's massive bulk is spread out on the mattress, legs hanging off. She stretches and winces when she feels the twinge of sore muscles running through her. Her hands are bandaged and covered with something that smells like ointment. The night before returns to her in bits and pieces. Oh, gods. She'd never wanted to become that faceless girl again. She groans and gets to her feet, dressing in silence, stomach grumbling for food.

Nymeria keens in her throat and bounces off the bed behind Arya. As soon as Arya opens the door to her chambers to a chilly breeze, she sighs at the thought of walking down all those stairs. She whispers to Nymeria and the direwolf huffs, taking a seated stance so Arya can climb on. Nymeria bounds down the stairs but her fur cushioning keeps her from being jostled too much.

Out in the courtyard, there is still chaos, though it seems much more organized than the day before. Arya frowns. She must have slept for hours. One of Gendry's guard comes to her as soon as he spots the direwolf padding across the empty training yard.

"Your grace," he begins, bowing, "we heard how many wights you killed last night. They're all talking about it."

Arya grimaces. It was the last thing she wanted, drawing attention to the abilities she'd learn in Bravos. She feels sick at the idea, and the slightest bit faint. But then, she hasn't broken fast yet. "Where's Jon? And Gendry?"

"The Lord Commander and the king are in Lady Melisandre's chambers. I believe Lady Nym is with them as well."

Before the man can say more, Arya digs her heels into Nymeria's flank and takes off in the direction of the Commander's Keep. The guards open the doors for her when she dismounts, and inside is comfortable warmth, voices rising and falling in argument. Upon seeing her, they all quiet around the round table, those the guard had mentioned and the Maege Mormont as well.

There is a small silence, then Mormont says, "Well done, lass. The second wave is saying the wights would be up the Wall were it not for your arrows."

Gendry stands as Arya makes her way to the empty seat beside him. She asks, "How long have I been asleep?"

"Long enough to miss the breaching of the main gates," Jon informs her, and he looks more like shit than she feels, with dark circles round his eyes and his stubble grown nearly to a beard. "We've stoppered it for now but it's going to get a lot worse very soon. We've received a raven from Tarly and they've only just reached Winterfell, though his force has gotten bigger with the Warrior's Sons joining them. It seems having a queen and king willing to fight for the realm inspires action in the people as well. But it'll take them another week or two at least to get here. We need to take action now," he adds roughly, glaring at Melisandre, seemingly return back to ongoing debate.

"You'll do no such foolish thing," the red priestess replies. "I've told you, I can see the tide of the battle turning for us."

"There'll be wights in our towers before the bloody battle turns," Jon snaps. "We have to go forward with my plan."

"What plan?" Arya interrupts.

Nym is the one to answer, "Jon wants to form the Watch into scouts and battle outside the gates of the Wall before they get in here. Now that the gate has been irreparably broken, it's only a matter of time before they get in."

"And we have no other choice," Jon says quietly. "We need to go. My men have been fighting for two days straight. They're all tired and scared, and they all know wights are going to come pouring through the gate any minute. We have a few hundred arrows left at most, and oil enough to set the plan in motion. I'm not sending more men up there to waste time. Arya nearly froze to death up there."

It's an exaggeration, but Arya doesn't correct him. She still feels half frozen, truth be told. "How many men do you plan to send?"

"About a third of our strength," Jon hedges. "I'll be among them, of course. We'll guard the perimeter, fight at slightly closer range, and set up a burning fire to catch wights before they can get any closer. The men will rotate between the top of the wall, the perimeter outside the gate, and rest. The first watch will be sent as soon as the last of the oil is used to burn the wights within distance."

"Sent to their deaths," Melisandre returns, her peculiar eyes flaring in controlled anger. The brroch at her neck seems to glow. "Listen to the Red God; help is on the way. You need only hold."

"What help?" Mormont demands. "You speak of flames and gods, but the Old Gods help those who help themselves."'

The priestess stares at them in turn, her eyes lingering on Arya for a few seconds longer. "If I am outmatched, there is naught I can do but pray for victory from the Great Other."

"Then pray," Jon growls. "And we'll do our best to keep Westeros safe."

With Jon stomping out of her chambers, it seems the conversation is over. Melisandre has turned away from them, facing the flames in her hearth but even her prophecy would be unable to change the Lord Commander's wish. They would go beyond the Wall to fight.

...

Gendry blows on his fingers to keep them warm, keeping his eyes fixed on the darkness in the woods. Occasionally, an errant wight will come stumbling and perish in the fire burning constantly around the perimeter. Like a reverse moat. His horse is jittery under him, pawing at the frozen ground. He turns to look at Arya prowling the edges of the semi-circle on Nymeria, casting shadows.

He knows he'll never admit it out loud, but Arya is terrifying in battle. Even more than when she had tried to kill him so long ago. Three days had passed since the top of the Wall, seeing her fire arrow after arrow without a second thought, like she was born to kill, like the bow was an appendage of hers. It had chilled him down to the bone. When he stopped her after running out of arrows, Arya seemed ready to take his own head off.

He wonders now, if it had been humans instead of wights, would she still be as ruthless? He doesn't care to know.

The horn starts, once, twice, thrice. He pulls his furs closer and feels for the obsidian dagger Jon had given him in place of his sword. More wights?

Even as his eyes follow Arya, he notices the half-ring of flame spluttering. Arya must notice it, too. Nymeria slows down to a stop as the part of the flame farthest from the Wall and closest to the forest begins to… fade. As they watch, the fire gradually and quietly dims until it is embers, the wood crackling one last time before even the faint glow is gone.

All that's left is ash.

Ash, and cold. Tendrils of fog reach out toward them from the woods, moving with exquisite slowness. Nymeria growls deep in her throat. One of the men on guard with them lets out a strangled sob. Another's horse lets out a shrill whinny.

The horns hadn't meant wights. They'd meant Others.

Something moves in the woods, just at the edge of his vision, and his heart nearly stops.

Nymeria barks and the lonely sound echoes. Arya unsheathes her sword – his sword – and Widow's Wail makes a faint whispering as it leaves the leather scabbard, like a sigh of impatience. In the next instant, Nymeria is galloping forward with Arya's sword raised into the fog and his pulse spikes.

Blind panic runs through his body and he flicks the reins of his horse, shouting, "Arya, don't!"

He isn't sure if she hears him or not and his horse is running into the woods after her. Dead branches whip at his furs and faces, slicing open the skin and leaving scratches he can feel welling with blood. He thinks he can see Nymeria ahead and opens his mouth to call out.

But then he goes still, the horse under him stopping seemingly midstep. Gendry attempts to breathe but his lungs may as well have been full of ice rather than breath for all his effort.

 _Arya,_ he tries to call.

He's so cold, as though he has never known warmth, has never seen the sun, has never touched Arya's flesh. Shuddering, he tries to bring his furs closer but his hands hang useless by his side.

The Others appear before him clearly, silent as the Stranger, tall and pale as the snow itself, with eyes like ice flashing in the dark. There seem to be several, though many remain out of Gendry's sight and he finds he no longer has control to move.

Gendry closes his eyes as he topples boneless to the hard ground.

...

She can't see in this darkness, she can't bloody see anything. Just dead trees and, bare branches, the eerie fog. There aren't even any wights among the trees. Arya keeps her sword drawn and stays Nymeria, who pants from the distance she's run. Despite being atop her direwolf, she can see only a few paces into the thick freezing mist. At least the wind has calmed.

The only thing she had thought when she ran was protecting the Wall. Now, she hopes Gendry was smart enough to retreat, and following that thought:  _what if he wasn't?_

"Fucking hell!" Arya curses into the night, her breath visible in the air. It would be just like him to try and follow her. She turns Nymeria back and retraces her steps. Then, as though she's hit a wall of cold, the air drops in temperature. Even Nymeria rumbles, recognizing something, or perhaps sensing something.

Arya gets off and keeps her sword forward, squinting unsuccessfully to see better. A flash of white catches her attention. Drawing on her years of training, Arya holds her breath as she takes a few steps forward. That's when she sees them. The Others. She has no doubt that is what they are, moving among the shadows and fog like wraiths. They mix into one another, making them impossible to count.

Realizing the horse standing across from them is Gendry's, Arya moves into action. Gripping Widow's Wail tighter, she leaps forward and cuts through the closest hulking figure of white and ice, and the being muddles down into blue ichor. She swings for the next one but where there had been an arm, now there is a blade that roughly meets her own, sending a shock up her sore shoulders. She catches a glimpse of Gendry, curled on the ground, eyes closed.

No. Gods,  _no_ , he has to be alive.

She draws back and attacks from a different angle, trying to make herself remember everything she had learned from Syrio Forel, from the House of Black and White. But she cannot now. All she can think of is Gendry lying on the ground behind the Others. Arya shrieks and manages to slash at another creature of ice, leaving the puddle of blue without a second glance.

One of the Others screeches fearsome and bursts into ichor, and Arya can just see Nymeria's fangs bared to attack another. But there still seems to be the same amount of Others.

Something rips across her back, past her furs and chain mail and tunic. Something so cold, it seems to burn. Arya falls to her knees, Gendry only inches away. When the next blow comes, Arya defends, thrusts blindly forward as the wound in her back leaves her convulsing in agony.

Still, she keeps the sword extended. She has to protect Gendry, if not herself.

 _Not today,_  she wants to scream,  _not today!_

But the next parry from icy blades sends Widow's Wail skittering away from her, and Nymeria howls up at the moonless sky as she crunches another monster into oblivion, too far away. More still seem to take its place.

Arya's stomach flips and she turns over, vomits what little supper she'd had, coughing up bile as she feels the freeze of the Others getting closer. She reaches out her hand to Gendry, touches nothing but dirt.

A deafening roar comes, and Nymeria throws back her maw and howls again, a snarl ripping from her throat as it ends. The roar continues, a thundering that seems to rip the air apart. Not the horns. Not Nymeria. Arya manages to look away from Gendry, just in time to see the Others vanishing into mist.

Gone. Just like that.

She frowns, getting back on her feet, but the cut on her back leaves her keeling over. Another roar shakes the earth beneath her, actually shakes it until the trees are quivering and small wooden branches are falling over her. She struggles to make out Gendry's ragged breathing over the roaring, but he's saying her name in a voice as weak as a child, "Arya?" and it's the sweetest sound she has heard, she wants to cry with joy and relief.

Then the sky lights up bright, as bright as day, as bright as the sun in the south, as bright as any open fire. Through the bare branches, Arya can make out flames. She can feel the heat, warmest she has been since arriving at the Wall.

"Gendry," she breathes, "the sky is on fire."

And he laughs, wheezing out a single word, "Dragons."


	9. I Thought I Dreamed Them

There is a sword in her hands – not Needle, this she knows. The balance is off, the blade too broad. But she wields it with the same easy confidence. There is blood on the floor that she recognizes as the lower level of the House of Black and White. For a moment the sight of it is a welcome distraction from the other thing lying on the floor. A body. Small.

A child.

With hesitant hands, she lets the sword drop and reaches for the corpse. Her heart is suddenly pounding, loud and insistent like she knows she's done something wrong, when she turns the child's body over. She recognizes the features instantly, with bright blue Baratheon eyes and shocking black hair, and in the child's hands is her sword, her Needle, and Arya throws back her head and howls in anguish.

She jolts awake. Drenched in sweat and breathing hard, her back burns with pain at the sudden movement. She's in her chambers in the King's Tower. She tries to remember the dream she'd had, sure it is of importance, but she can't recall anything past a blur.

"Do you know?" a small clear voice rings out and Arya jerks up again, much to her back's complaint. The voice belongs to a girl with dark skin and eyes with the color and consistency of molten gold. "Do you know?"

_Do I know what_? Arya opens her mouth to ask, but all that comes out is a cough.

The girl fills a glass with water from a pitcher on the stand and Arya drinks unquestioningly, long and deep as though she hasn't tasted water in years.

"Where's Gendry?" Arya asks, breathing hard from a task as simple as drinking.

"Sleeping," the girl answers curtly. "And okay."

Still somewhat disoriented, Arya glances around the chambers as if hoping for clues. Slowly, she starts, "I... I was dreaming, I think," she says, but she still can't remember of what, so she guesses, "Of dragons."

The girl looks amused now. "It wasn't a dream. The dragons are here, with _khaleesi_ Daenerys Targaryen, queen of the Andals, unburnt mother of dragons-"

Arya interrupts the title midway, nearly leaping to her feet. Pain blooms in her back and she stumbles over nothing, landing hard on her knees. "Seven hells," she groans.

"You shouldn't do that," the girl admonishes. "It isn't good for either of you."

Arya's head snaps up. "What? What did you just say?"

The girl's gaze doesn't flicker. "The _khaleesi_ said you call yourself a queen, but you're really just another usurper."

"What's your name?" Arya demands, still on her knees in one of what she recognizes as Gendry's long tunics.

"Missandei."

Arya manages to get to her feet, though she sways in her place. "Why did you say 'either of you' when there's just me?"

"I thought you knew," she says in a small voice, uncertainty flashing across her features.

"Knew what?" A nagging discomfort begins in the pit of Arya's stomach. She thinks she knows what, but she doesn't say it out loud, doesn't even let the thought come into her mind.

Before the girl can answer, the door opens to a haggard Jon, at least a week's beard on his face, his sword strapped to his waist. When he sees Arya awake, he nods sharply in Missandei's direction and the girl nods back with practiced familiarity, walks out with Arya's question unanswered.

"It's good that you're awake. There's much to discuss."

"Nice to see you too, Jon. My back still hurts, thanks for asking. I'm quite worried, see I finally remember what I left at King's-"

"Arya," Jon's voice is harsh, then he sighs and his expression softens. "I apologize but things have changed. And I should warn you, it's going to be incredibly difficult from here…" he falters off, staring into some invisible distance, then picks up again, "Missandei said you'd be fine when you awoke and she's never wrong."

"Missandei also said the dragons were real. I thought I dreamed them."

"You didn't," Jon rubs a hand across his beard. "Daenerys is claiming the throne. She took one look at Gendry and burst out laughing. She hasn't seen you yet but she's already dismissed you as a child."

"Child?" Arya demands, outraged. Her back flares with pain as she steps forward. "I'll show her a fucking child!"

"Are you going to show her dragons too?" Jon snaps and Arya promptly halts in her steps. "Arya, please. Just listen. We're lucky she doesn't want his head; she isn't very fond of any Baratheon- or Stark for that matter. But there's... more. Just, calm down."

Not in the least bit calm, Arya demands, "How long have I been out?"

Jon pauses for a moment before answering, "A few days, I think."

"You _think_?"

Jon squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fire-scarred fingers into a fist. When he opens them, his voice is tight, "Arya, we need you. Not a queen, just you. So please, just sit down and pay attention."

Seething, Arya stumbles back a step and sinks down on the mattress despite her conviction. She feels light headed, just beginning to feel the slightest bit faint. Suddenly, a roar echoes down from above, shaking the tower and everything in it, knocking the pitcher of water over. Arya stares at the ceiling stunned.

"The dragons," Jon replies to her expression. "They... they've acquired a taste for- for human flesh. They've been picking off humans from the Gift, free folk and clansmen."

"And no one's stopping them?"

"We've stopped two."

"How?"

"The _khaleesi_ says she found a man to blow a horn to control Drogon. A Greyjoy, apparently. She keeps him guarded at all times."

"And the other dragon?" she asks.

Jon falls silent yet again. After a long pause, he tells her, almost reverently, "I'll show you. Wrap up in your warmest furs and follow me."

"If we're going out, with Missandei and Daenerys out there, I need to get dressed properly. In breeches and mail."

"You won't need it. We're not going down, we're going up."

Confused, Arya grabs the blanket and wears it around herself like a cloak. The freezing air is refreshing. She trails him up the tower and finds two figures catching her eye. One is barely a speck, high up in the sky. But the other, the dragon that had roared, is closer to the tower. His massive wings send gales through Castle Black with every flap. Arya gapes unblinking at the dragon flying through the air, slicing the sky in half. Dimly, through a sense far from her natural five, she's aware of Nymeria growling in the kennels with rage at the flying beasts.

"Arya!" Jon barks and she snaps to attention, realizing he's been saying her name for some time now. "His name is Rhaegal."

"It's a dragon," she replies dumbly.

Hearing her words back, she flinches, waiting for the inevitable condescension. Instead, Jon only nods and repeats, "It's a dragon. Now watch. And don't worry; whatever happens, you're safe."

Jon sits on the stone floor of the tower with his legs crossed. Arya frowns and her gaze returns to the dragon. Even as she stares, Rhaegal draws nearer to them. The wind from his flaps whips around her, turning the cold air absolutely frigid, sending short hair into her eyes.

The dragon's closing distance unnerves her, and Arya turns back to Jon for reassurance.

Arya gasps.

Jon's eyes are all whites. His irises have disappeared, leaving only a blank milky nothing.

Panic floods through her. The cold disappears, leaving hyperawareness and the desire to have a sword to defend herself -- Needle, Widow's Wail, anything, she doesn't care. Kneeling, Arya touches Jon's shoulder and he doesn't react. The dragon is directly over the tower, shadow hulking over them, close enough that Arya can see the pupil contracting in the dragon's eye as it fixes on her and blinks with intelligence.

Nym's words return to her, _You weren't you… your eyes were white._

The sudden realization hits her that Jon is within the dragon.

But her heart is still beating too fast, the impulse to fight warring with the natural instinct to flee from danger overwhelming her. Clapping a hand over her mouth, Arya manages to reach the edge of the parapet before she vomits over the side of the tower. Pain flares in her back, crippling, nearly bringing her down to her knees. Her vision blurs and for a second, she's back in King's Landing watching her father kneeling at the stairs of the sept, and she's outside River Run learning of Robb's death, and she's a blind beggar in Bravos.

Then Jon's gripping her shoulders, and his voice is nearly lost in the wind, but she can still make out that he's saying her name.

She thinks she falls out of consciousness, but she isn't sure. But Jon's leading her back into the warmth of the tower, away from the dragon and away from the freezing cold, and by the time her mind clears enough for her to make sense of the world, she's back in her chambers, and Jon's trying to get her to lay back.

Pushing him away, Arya straightens. Her back still burns where her wound is and embarrassment heats her face. "I'm ending up in this fucking bed far more than I like."

Jon gives her a grim smile and raises his voice to call, "Missandei!"

"You still haven't told me why I'm needed," Arya murmurs, though she knows exactly why they need her. She still has enough wits about her not to be fooled. Because Jon isn't the only one who can change skins and there's still one dragon untamed. Almost on cue, another roar wracks the tower and Arya holds back a flinch.

On the steps of the roar, the door creaks open to an unfazed Missandei, who stands at the entrance with a tray of something that smells heavenly. Jon glances from the girl to his sister, shakes his head and tells her, "I'll come back when you're feeling better. Eat something, Arya. You'll need your strength."

He turns to go, but Arya grabs his wrist. "Jon, listen. There's… something." Arya looks at Missandei and says to her, "Tell him what you told me."

The girl frowns as she sets down the tray, twisting the hem of her skirts with small hands. "Are you sure..?"

"Just tell him," Arya's voice is sharp, and she let's go of Jon's hand. She wants to curl into a little ball, she wants her mother to stroke her hair and sing her silly lullabies. She doesn't want it said out loud. That would make it real.

_It's already real,_ she reminds herself, _and you killed what was left of your mother._

Missandei's eyes flick from Jon's probing gaze to the floor. Finally, she says, "Lady Arya's with child."

When there is no reaction, no response, Arya ventures her gaze up. Jon's scarred fist is clenched, a single muscle in his jaw twitching. He stares straight ahead at nothing. For a moment, Arya thinks he's gone again, changed skin. But then he exhales slowly and says, "You're going back to Winterfell as soon as you're well enough to travel."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"If you don't go on your own, I'll put you in shackles and a cage and have you sent."

"You will _not_!" Arya snarls. "I am _not_ running off with my tail tucked between my legs. I can still fight and you need me here. Especially now with that bloody dragon queen over your shoulder."

Missandei makes a small noise of protest but Jon's voice drowns her out, "You're saying I can't take care of myself? You're carrying a child inside you and you're telling me I need to watch _my_ back?"

"Jon, you're not sending me away and that's it. You need me. Westeros needs me. If there is any danger that I can help with, I will. I didn't ask to be the queen but I am now, and I would protect the North from whatever comes even if I hadn't vowed it, no matter what it does to me. You _know_ that!"

"Does Gendry know?"

Arya opens her mouth, still angry and willing to defend herself, but she realizes abruptly she has nothing to say. Gendry would take Jon's side and demand she return to Winterfell, if not all the way to King's Landing. She shakes her head, then quickly adds, "And if you tell him, gods help me, Jon-"

"I won't," he answers curtly. "But you will."

"Not until all this is over," Arya turns a hard glare towards the young girl, "And you won't be telling anyone either, understand?"

"You shouldn't put your body under strain," Missandei's quick to pipe up. "Even if you can fight, you shouldn't. Your back still hasn't healed."

"Warging is nothing like fighting. I can warg in my sleep."

"A dragon is not a wolf," Jon warns her. "Ghost is nothing like Rhaegal."

"And Rhaegal is nothing like Nymeria," Arya snaps.

Jon sinks down on the mattress beside her. "I just want you to be safe. I've lost too much already to bear the thought of losing you. You were lost for years, everyone thought you were dead. You can't return to us now, only to leave again."

"I won't," Arya promises, and she doesn't know if she's talking to him or herself.

…

Gendry sits across from Tyrion Lannister in the long hall. Nym stands at attention behind him, one hand on the hilt of her sword. The fire flickers quietly, casting the lower half of Tyrion's scarred face into shadow. Gendry tries not to stare, though the man stares back at him blatantly.

He's too nervous to care much anyway. It's Arya's first day skinchanging into Viserion and he'd been told to wait outside the chambers for protection. He would express frustration, but Nym hasn't been allowed inside either. They both wait in the hall below King's Tower, where Tyrion had joined them, only adding to the tension in the air.

The idea of Danaerys and Arya in the same chambers is nearly as terrifying as Arya entering a dragon's mind. They'd been on edge with each other since their first meeting, mediated by Jon – which really just meant that both women spoke to Jon rather than to each other. The only thing they'd managed to clarify in half a day's sitting was that Viserion liked his meat fresh and Bravos was beautiful.

"You do look like him, you know?" Tyrion breaks the silence, snapping Gendry out of his thoughts.

Gendry eyes the man, searching for ulterior motive, before he replies, "Yes, I know. They keep telling me." He doesn't need to explain who _they_ are.

"More like Renly, truth be told, but you have Robert's stubbornness in you as well. And I can see Stannis's hard steel in your eyes."

"Yes, alright, I already know I'm a Baratheon," Gendry mutters.

"You're the son he always wanted. Not dear dead nephew Joffrey, nor young Tommen who hides in Casterly Rock, nor lovely delicate Myrcella whose sex her father could never look past. He wanted someone who would hold a hammer and march into battle-"

"What are you getting at?" Gendry interrupts.

Tyrion leans closer and Gendry can hear Nym taking a step closer to him. His hammer is lying at his feet, too far to reach in a single move. But all Tyrion does is speak.

"What I'm getting at, young Gendry, is that Robert was many things but the one thing he was not was a good king."

"Your grace, you have no need to listen to this rubbish." Nym's voice is controlled behind him, but he knows what her intent is.

Tyrion had been trying to convince Gendry for days to simply give up the throne to Daenerys. It was annoying, yes, but Gendry hadn't let himself be bothered. Particularly since he was already bothered by everything else, including that within a day's time, their force from King's Landing would arrive at the Wall. Nym, on the other hand, had a shorter temper the longer she was away from the South.

Gendry shrugs. "Let the man talk. There are more pressing things at hand then vying for the Iron Throne."

"Truly spoken like a child who does not yet understand the importance of power."

Gendry ignores him. He rubs his hands together just to do something, to keep himself from pacing. "How long is this going to take? They've been in there for an hour already."

"Lord Commander Jon mentioned that it shouldn't take too long," Nym says. "He said if something were to go wrong, he would alert us immediately."

"Not that you can do anything from here," Tyrion interjects. "If the girl burns, she will do so from the inside out and there's nothing a blade or hammer could do to stop it."

Gendry glares at him. "She'll be fine. She's pulled through a lot worse."

"You're really very sweet on her, aren't you?"

The idea of Arya and the word _sweet_ being used in the same sentence is unnerving, even if the statement is true, and Gendry frowns before he mutters, "She's my wife. Of course I'm… sweet on her."

"I saw the way you reacted when you saw her yesterday," Tyrion snickers and Gendry can feel his face turn red, remembering their ridiculously long kiss in full view of Danaerys's entourage. He hadn't been able to help himself. Missandei and Jon hadn't let him in to see her while she recovered and he'd been nearly sick with worry. He'd just wanted to know she was safe.

Gendry clears his throat and gets up. "The important thing is protecting Westeros. Politics don't matter. Thrones don't matter."

"Next you'll be saying dragons don't matter, or names don't matter."

Before Gendry can find a retort, the door flies open. Daenerys walks through the door, all long gleaming silver hair and violet eyes glinting, Missandei at her side. Gendry hadn't even known the girl was inside, but she was never far from her _khaleesi_ and she'd been charged with Arya's protection.

Daenerys gives him a long look and he stands firm. She says, "Were it not for Ser Selmy's advice, I would have strung you and your insolent pack of usurpers up already."

The muscles in Gendry's jaw clench, and he manages to spit out, "Ser Selmy's wiser than his ward, it seems."

"Lady Dany! Lord Gendry!" Jon's voice interjects between them forcefully. "This is hardly the time for bickering."

Daenerys turns her frosty glare on him, colder even than the icy Wall, and snaps, "Bickering? A bastard sits on _my_ throne, and you reduce us to children squabbling over bread?"

"Is bastard really such an insult, my lady?" Jon asks quietly, tired.

She abruptly seems to realize what she's said and to whom. Drawing herself up to her full height, she turns and sweeps out of the hall. Missandei stays.

Jon sighs and rubs a hand across his full beard.  "We need her more than she knows," he muses, almost to himself. "Or perhaps she does know."

"Oh, she knows," Tyrion points out, looking far too entertained.

Gendry ignores them and heads for Arya's chambers, shutting the door behind him. He has no interest in the bickering or the politics or any of it, really. He just wants to make sure Arya's okay.

She doesn't _look_ okay. Her face is wan, hollowed out and colorless. Worse somehow than when she'd been tortured in the dungeons of King's Landing. It sends pain lancing up through Gendry's gut, and he presses his lips together to keep from saying something stupid.

"What's wrong?" she asks, studying him nearly as closely as he studies her.

"You don't look well," he whispers, coming to sit beside her on the mattress.

She closes her eyes as he cradles her face between both of his hands. "The dragon. He burns. He's like plunging myself into a sea of flame and – and there's something wrong with trying to tame fire, isn't there? I keep trying to enter his mind but there's something stopping me, like the bloody Wall, you know?"

He doesn’t know, but he nods along, and Arya keeps talking.

"Jon says he's never had any problems, not like this."

"Arya, I'm worried," he tells her, and she opens her dull grey eyes to stare up at him.

"Now? You're worried _now_? When we've all come too far to step back even a single inch? Fear cuts deeper than swords, Gendry." She leans forward suddenly to kiss him, bringing her whole body flush against his, nearly pushing him back into the covers. She pushes his furs down off his shoulders, unfastens his cloak.

"Wait," Gendry breaks away, "are you sure you're well enough to-"

Arya growls in frustration and returns to her task and Gendry shuts up, helping her undo the laces on her breeches. She doesn't seem tired anymore, pulling Gendry closer to her, trailing her lips down his neck.

Between kisses, she mumbles incoherent words, and all he can catch is, “stupid dragon” and “I’m not fragile.”

No, she certainly isn’t, and she proves it, a surprising strength in her as she sways over Gendry. His fingers skim over the flesh of her abdomen, crossing over scars sunk deep into her skin and still fresh bruises, risen marks detailing a story of horror and pain.

Arya leans down to kiss him as she lowers down onto him, and he loses his place somewhere on her third rib.

Afterwards, she lies over his chest and whispers, “Gendry, what are we going to do?”

"You just told me not to worry," he reminds her.

She props herself up on an elbow, then flinches and adjusts and Gendry realizes her back must still hurt where the Others attacked. He moves over to make more room for her on the bed, and she doesn't even seem to realize when she takes the space.

"I don't mean worry, I just mean…" she sighs and trails off, biting her lower lip. Finally, she says in a small voice, "I don't want to do any of it anymore. Negotiate with dragon-wielding foreigners, or lead soldiers into war, or play at being queen. I never wanted to, and I'm no good at it."

Gendry can't deny any of it; he's had similar thoughts before. He wrapped her up in his arms and pulled her closer, whispering, "Then what _do_ you want?"

Arya sits up abruptly. "Let's just leave," she says, eyes wide. "As soon as all this is over, let's run away. We can go anywhere – we'll go to the Summer Isles, or Sothoryos, anywhere away from here. I'll change my name, grow out my hair."

Frowning, Gendry asks, "What brought this on? I knew you weren't happy, but I hadn't realized you were this miserable either."

"I'm not! I just want _all_ of us to be happy," Arya snaps. "I mean – you know what I mean. Not just you and me, but in the future too. What are we going to do here, huh? What are we going to do when we want a family? Are we going to put our children in danger over something petty like titles or thrones?"

Gendry stares at her. "You… you want a family? Arya, do you mean it?"

Looking embarrassed, she says in a sullen voice, "Well, I can tell you do."

"I would never force you," he says seriously. "It isn't _possible_ to force you. I'm not nearly stubborn enough to outdo you."

There's a long pause, and he thinks she's considering what he said in her mind. But then she slowly stands off the bed and murmurs, "That's it." She grabs his tunic off the floor and throws it on, hastily pulling up her breeches.

"What's it?" he asks, then pointing at the tunic, "That's mine."

She hurriedly kisses Gendry and tells him, "You've solved it!"

Then she throws open the door and Gendry scrambles to dress himself (only halfway; her tunic is too small to come down over his shoulders) and follow her out, thankfully into the now empty hall. Arya's already halfway across the courtyard by the time he catches up to her, still lacing his breeches under his furs. She doesn’t even stop as he joins her side. She hasn't even strapped Needle to her side or put on her coat.

"Arya, aren't you cold?" he demands

"I need to find Jon," she mumbles. "I know why I can't control Viserion."

He frowns, not understanding. "Why not?"

"Because someone else is trying to!"

…

Arya closes her eyes, aware of Jon and Missandei's presence beside her in the chambers, aware of Gendry watching her from his place at the door. Jon is telling her to stay calm, to take a deep breath, but she intentionally blocks his voice out and concentrates her attention inward. Stepping into Nymeria and her pack is so simple, like molding herself into the same mind inside her own skull. Viserion is far more difficult, vast, burning, visceral.

But she can feel it, understand why she can't get a hold. There's someone fighting her on the other end. It had taken her a while to convince Jon what the block was, then again to convince him to let her try one more time. Jon had guessed it may have been one of the Free Folk beyond the Wall.

It doesn't take her long to reach out with her mind, to feel Nymeria and her pack, to feel the birds in the air, Drogon and Rhaegal. Then, finally, Viserion.

She shivers as she approaches him, the huge hulking presence of the beast. Viserion has no periphery. He is open and honest and brash. There is no hiding for the great beast, no edges or corners to slink into. It is completely unlike Nymeria, whose mind is full of nooks and crannies, shadows and darkness.

Arya plunges into the dragon's mind.

Overwhelmed, Arya considers backing out now but there’s fire everywhere, wildfire on her flesh and seeping under her skin, her muscles, and settling into her bones and she races through Viserion's mind trying to find shelter or relief but an orange glow follows everywhere, and the glow is hot scorching burning blistering her entire being and she finds the edge of that wall that had stopped her before, terrified of being trapped in this heat, throws back her head and howls and-

Silence. Coolness.

The other presence, the one she had initially felt, the one shielding Viserion's mind like a bubble that she had not been able to get through the first time but now suddenly has.

Experimentally, she reaches out to touch the other mind in the cold darkness, the one whose space she has invaded.

And then she knows.

…

Gendry stares at Arya's expression, at the slightest twitching of her lips, of the tightening of the muscles around her eyes. Despite the cold, a single bead of sweat runs down her brow bone, dripping down onto her cheek.

He wants to wipe the droplet away, holds the urge to touch her in check. He glances at Jon instead. Jon's jaw is clenched tight, hands turned into fists, as if he too is trying not to reach out to her. Only Missandei looks relaxed, casually watching Arya, her hands clutching a wooden bucket.

Gendry clears his throat and asks, "Why've you got that?"

If Missandei's surprised he's spoken, she doesn't show it. She flicks her eyes lazily to him and raises an eyebrow as if she finds his question foolish but is too polite to point it out, and says, "If Lady Arya is sick, she will need this."

"Why would she need it? She's not ill."

Missandei squints at him like he's missing the point.

"She's taking too long," Jon says abruptly. "Something's wrong."

Gendry has no frame of reference, has only seen Jon skinchange once before for a few minutes, but he nods in agreement and says, "Is there anything we can do from here to help her?"

"No," Jon exhales loudly.

A persistent knocking on the door distracts all of them, and they all turn to the door with the exception of Arya. Jon answers and the door opens to Nym.

"Jon, Melisandre needs you," Nym's voice is high, out of breath, but she goes on . "Something's happened in the flames, Melisandre says you need to go to Eastwatch on your dragon and help Stannis fight."

Jon is on his feet in an instant. "What? No, I can't just leave-"

He takes a step forward, but before he can finish his sentence, Arya grips his wrist and stops him. None of them had realized when she'd returned, but in the sudden silence, the only sound is her labored breathing.

"Arya?" Jon begins.

"It's him," her whisper is harsh as it cuts him off. "It's Bran."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Meli (tumblr: princessaryaunderfoot) for encouraging me to finish this :). Thank you.


	10. Fear Is Better Than Faceless

Sansa arrives with the southern army to the Wall. She rides in the front beside Tarly himself, wearing a hooded cloak of House Arryn's sky blue. Arya's heart leaps as she watches her sister dismount from her steed and make her way to the waiting party. Arya had insisted she be part of them, though Jon wanted her to stay inside. But when the scouts told them Sansa was arriving, Arya refused to stay behind.

Of course she'd reconsidered when she learned Daenerys would wait for them to come to her, as befitting a queen, but the thought of seeing Sansa again has Arya ignoring all custom.

Now she steps forward first, even before Jon has completed welcoming them, and envelopes her sister into a hug.

"I've missed you," Sansa says in her ear.

"Not anymore than I missed you," Arya returns, though it doesn't escape her that when she'd been only a few years younger, the idea of missing Sansa would have left her making retching noises. "How was your trip?"

"Oh, Arya, when we reached the Vale, they told us Petyr Baelish had been brutally beheaded," and for a moment, Sansa hugs her tighter and whispers, "Thank you."

When they part and head toward the halls, Arya observes the others who had followed them, including Howland Reed to her surprise, and two tall figures in helms, both of whom seem to be following Sansa closely.

"Who are the knights?" Arya murmurs, nudging her sister.

Sansa giggles and says, "Brienne and Mya, Gendry's sister. I asked her if she wanted to be legitimized but she said all she really wanted was to be knighted and fight for me. Ladies _and_ knights, it's wonderful!" Then her expression sobers and her voice drops surprisingly low. "Do you know what Brienne told me? Jaime and Cersei Lannister are dead."

"I thought Cersei was at Casterly Rock."

"She _was_ at Casterly Rock, lady of the castle. She was also once the queen. Now she's just dead."

Arya nods, realizing abruptly her list is nearly done. The Freys who'd all been slaughtered by her moth- by Lady Stoneheart. The Lannister soldiers. They're all dead.

Sansa goes on talking about how wonderful it was to see Rickon again, and wasn't he getting along with Shireen well, that Harold was more than happy to stay at Winterfell with Ser Justin, but Arya can only think of the little girl who'd chanted a list like a prayer and how the names had all been crossed out.

It should make her happy.

It doesn't.

…

Gendry helps Arya don her armor the next morning. Today is the day. Today they are to go into the lands beyond the Wall to seek out the armies of the Others and Bran, if that really is him Arya had sensed. Whatever would be done, it needs to be done quickly. Armies are in a poor state, starving and frozen and weary. Early in the morning, Daenerys had flown East to aid Stannis, taking with her only Missandei and the mysterious chained Greyjoy who apparently controlled Drogon.

Gendry knows he's expected to lead the army, though Tarly insists the king – even a king only for a few more hours -- should be well protected and away from the battle.

His head pulses miserably. He is to officially renounce the throne tonight. Arya doesn't know yet. He doesn't want to be the one to tell her. Not that she'd mind, he thinks. She just has a lot going on.

But Jon had come to him the night before when Arya was in Sansa's chambers and -- well. He supposes she is to know soon enough.

Once her armor's set in place, Gendry kisses her lightly and says, "Be safe."

"And you, don't do anything stupid," she replies. Her eyes are far away -- to her family? But she focuses on him and adds, "When I return, we need to talk."

The pulsing in his head turns to pounding _._

_She knows._

He doesn't know how, but he wouldn't put it past a former Faceless Woman to find out what he's trying to keep from her. Better she knows than he has to break it to her, anyway. His jaws come together loudly. Gendry says through clenched teeth, "Okay. I wanted to do this sooner but okay. We'll talk about it when you return."

For a moment, she looks taken aback, blinking in confusion, then a roaring echoes from outside the tower.

Arya's eyes widen. "Viserion," she hisses, throwing her furs over armor and rushing out the door.

Gendry tightens his cloak and follows her into the howling wind. The soldiers camped in the yard look terrified and it doesn't take Gendry long to see why.

Viserion is spitting fire up in the sky, sending a solid column of flame writhing through the air. The column has only barely disappeared when another takes its place. The dragon is too far away for Gendry to feel anything but the slightest warmth in the air until it's freezing again. But Arya looks worried.

"Has he lost control completely?" Gendry asks.

"If Targs can go mad, why not their dragons?" she murmurs and takes off again in the direction of the Commander's Keep.

Even before she gets there, Jon meets them halfway, yelling, "Arya, we need to leave now!"

"Now?" Gendry demands, panic shooting through his veins. That _isn't_ the plan. "Without the armies or guards?"

Viserion roars once more, then with strained flapping of his wings, flies north.

"Now!" Jon repeats, even as Rhaegal lowers to the center of the courtyard, and Arya doesn't hesitate at the obvious order in his voice.

Men go scrambling away from the beast, but Gendry remains in place, watching as Arya steps away from him and climbs on the dragon. He stays rooted to the ground when Rhaegal kicks up clouds of dust and dry snow and takes off, keeps watching until there is nothing left but a vague speck that eventually vanishes over the Wall.

…

The wind shrieks in Arya's ears and she squeezes her eyes shut, clinging tighter to Jon. She suddenly feels very very small, smaller than she had as the mouse of Harrenhal, smaller than the Nobody of the Faceless Men. The only thing louder than the wind is her own blood pounding in her chest.

But behind the racing blood and wind is another familiar noise waiting to well up. The one telling her she could do this, she could do it without even a blink, without fear and emotion. If she would only forget herself.

Arya forces her eyes open, tears forming in them instantly. No. She will not think of it. She still remembers the bitter taste in her mouth after she had lost herself again at the top of the Wall, how she could not recall her name, how difficult it was to bring herself back into Arya Stark. She will not go there again, choosing fear and hesitation over years of training. She thinks of her father's slow smile and calm voice, and her mother's soft touches through her hair. She won't forget again.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

_But fear is better than faceless._

When her eyes flick down, all she can make out are the tops of trees, bare branches, Rhaegal's glinting scales, and an expanse of white snow. A flicker of worry for Gendry begins in her. Down there with southern armies, fighting monsters. The fact that Nymeria's pack will be shadowing him is some comfort. At least Sansa is safe back at the Wall, and even if Arya doesn't trust Melisandre with much, she trusts her sister will be safe with the priestess. After all, Sansa is to be the heir apparent of the Vale and regent of Winterfell.

Jon stirs and a moment later, they are slowing down. The howling fades and Arya relaxes in the saddle the slightest bit. She can hear Jon shout back to her, "You okay?"

Arya nods, knowing Jon will feel, saving her strength to yell back, "Where's Viserion?"

"Farther up ahead."

Squinting, she tries to make out the shape of the dragon, but all she can see is white and grey. "Why are we slowing?"

Jon shakes his head, then his arm jerks back and Rhaegal dips abruptly. The ground comes up suddenly and Arya lets loose an involuntary cry, tightening her hold on Jon again. To her surprise, the landing is surprisingly delicate; she barely realizes the dragon is touching the ground.

Then Jon is unstrapping himself and helping Arya dismount the dragon. Confused, she hops off and catches her balance as she steps away from Rhaegal, huffing steamy breath into the air.

"Why've we stopped?" she demands, and her voice grates from both the freezing chill and her frustration.

"Arya, we need to talk."

"We're letting Viserion get away!"

"This is important," Jon snaps in return. "Rhaegal will find Viserion."

"Okay, what is it?" She asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Arya... Reed told us last night at the council who my mother was."

Arya frowns, unsure why he is bringing it up. She hadn't been at the council, letting Gendry go while she stayed with Sansa. Is it something to do with why Gendry had behaved so strangely back at camp? "Wylla?" she asks, remembering something she had been told years earlier.

"No, no. It was Lyanna Stark."

Chewing on her lower lip, Arya considers, trying to put the pieces together. Suddenly, she recoils. "Are you saying Father..?"

"No!" Jon sighs and licks his lips, stalling more than anything else, before he says slowly, "My father -- it was Rhaegar Targaryen."

Arya laughs, but when she sees the expression on Jon's face, her laugh dies out and she stares at him. "It can't be. You're a Stark. You're my brother."

"I'm still your brother-"

"No, you're not. You're a bloody Targ! You're like _her_ \- you- you-" she sputters.

Jon presses his lips together, watching her with a hard expression as she stutters herself into silence. Only then does he say, "Arya, I'm Rhaegar's eldest son. Rhaegar was the crown prince."

Realization is slow to dawn on Arya. Once it reaches her, she says, "You should be on the throne."

Jon tenses. He nods once.

"Are you expecting me to argue?" she asks quietly. "You think I'm going to tell you Gendry deserves the throne because his father defeated yours? Is that it?" When Jon doesn't say anything, Arya says through grit teeth, "Fuck the throne. Jon, if you thought I would be the one coming between you and the crown-"

Jon starts toward her and Arya has to fight the instinctive urge to step away. But then Jon hugs Arya tightly and says, "I'm still your brother, Arya. I would never think any less of you, no matter what you had said. I won't leave the Night's Watch regardless."

Arya frowns. She realizes Gendry knows, that he'd been talking about the throne when she'd been talking about – fuck, she needs to tell Gendry everything when she gets back. "You could be the king," she says.

"Yes, but I took a vow."

"You would rather Daenerys sit on the throne than you? And what of Stannis?" Arya does not ask, _What of Gendry and me?_ The unasked question has been nagging at her since she'd first awoken from her fight with the Others and heard of Daenerys's existence, but it's pressing in tighter every second. _The important thing is to survive,_ Arya reminds herself,  _then, as long as I have Gendry, we'll be fine._

Jon shrugs in response, telling her, "The Night's Watch cares not for the politics of the realm, only in protecting it."

Before they can continue, Rhaegal's head snaps up suddenly. He makes a keening in his throat, like Nymeria does when she spots prey. 

"Jon, what is it?" Arya demands, stepping away warily, one hand on Widow's Wail.

"He must sense something. Viserion, perhaps. We need to get back on," he says, patting the scales of the dragon's thrumming neck.

The keening has turned into a rumbling, the beginnings of a growl. "He doesn't look stable enough to ride," Arya admits, fighting to keep her hold on fear, reminding herself that fear was better than faceless.

Jon is already climbing up the saddle, and he holds out his arm for Arya to take, staring down at her from feet above. Sighing, she grabs on and slings one foot in the steps, beginning the climb up. As soon as she is settled, Rhaegal roars a sound that reverberates in Arya's chest and takes off.

The dragon is different now, Arya can tell. His wings flap in jerky movements, and he does not stop growling even in the air. A moment later, Arya can spot something in the sky.

Nudging Jon, Arya points at the figure, growing closer.

"Viserion?" she screams over the wind, and Jon nods. Arya struggles to make out more detail, hoping to figure out why Rhaegal was agitated, but the dragon's glistening green scales are the only thing visible.

Then Jon yells back at her, "Riders!"

Immediately, Arya's eyes scan the ground, looking for the riders. But like before, nothing is visible through the foliage.

Abruptly, with a sinking feeling in her chest, she realizes what Jon means. Steeling her nerves, Arya lifts her gaze to Viserion's back, where two small figures are perched upon the dragon's back.

…

Gendry rides hard to keep up with Nym, though his mind is far away, somewhere up in the sky with Arya on a dragon. He knows better than to worry, but old habits die hard. It doesn't matter if he's a bastard or a king, he's always going to worry. The sounds of his portion of the army keeps his mind occupied, as do the occasional howls he can hear through the woods. Nymeria's pack.

It takes him a moment to realize Nym has slowed her riding to a trot, giving him the chance to keep pace with her. He pulls up beside her and takes the moment to adjust his hammer across his back, tightening the clasp of it's harness over his chest. When he looks up, Nym is staring at him expectantly.

"What?" he asks.

"You are going to give up the throne," she says pointedly. "And you have not told Arya yet."

Gendry groans. Of course Nym had heard his conversation with Jon. "She needs to concentrate on… on the dragon or her brother or whatever it is she's concentrating on. She's distracted enough as is. She barely talks to me."

"Have you discussed succession with the Lord Commander?"

"No, not yet. He said he would not take the throne, but neither has he told me who will. I believe he finds the Others a more pressing concern than laws of succession," Gendry muttered, "and so do I. Why are you asking?"

Now Nym is the one to look uncomfortable. "Lady Melisandre has asked me to stay on with her and Lord Stannis."

"Why?" Gendry demands, immediately defensive.

"Something about hot blood and," Nym shrugs, "I don't really know but she thinks my presence makes her magic stronger."

"All the more reason to stay away," Gendry argues.

"If you don't have a Kingsguard anymore, I don't have anything to be the Lady Commander of."

Gendry considers just as they spot a horse riding toward them swiftly. Green colors. Tarly's man. As he approaches them, Nym says, "He looks ready to fall off. These armies can't hold much longer in the North, no matter how much grain the Tyrells have promised once we return."

Sighing, Gendry sends a silent prayer to the Seven that he would at least not have to deal with the aftermath of this war.

"Your Grace," the scout stops short and does a little bow still seated. "Lord Tarly can see dragons in the sky."

"So soon?" Gendry asks, surprised. They had all left only an hour or so after Arya and Jon's departure, but he had expected them to get considerably ahead of them by now.

"Aye. Lord Tarly requests you and Lady Nym join him in the vanguard."

Nym and he exchange glances. "It's too easy," Nym says. "We shouldn't see them yet. We haven't even seen any White Walkers yet."

"If you see them, it's already too late," Gendry reminds her, suppressing a chill as he remembers the way it had felt when they were near, like cold and dark were the only things left in the world. But when he closes his eyes, he can remember the heat of dragons and better yet, of Arya. "How far is Tarly?"

"Only a few minutes ride, Your Grace. He has sent scouts for Lady Mormont and Lord Reed as well."

Gendry gestures for the scout to ride, following him with Nym beside him. What the hell is going on? It doesn't take long before the first roar reaches Gendry's ears, a sound similar to what he'd heard Viserion making. Then another sound, deeper, and Gendry turns his head up sharply, nearly losing his balance and falling off the horse. That has to be Rhaegal.

Arya is on Rhaegal.

Gendry digs his spurs into the horses side and speeds up, overtaking Nym and riding nearly on par with the scout.

_Seven hells, Arya, what fucking mess have you gotten yourself into now?_

He keeps his attention focused on riding, but the more distance he covers, the more every roar sounds loud enough to nearly shake the ground. It doesn't take long until he can see Tarly's soldiers, most craning their necks upward to see the dragons through the trees. The scout leads him in Tarly's direction and soon the man comes into view, the shield of his helm raised.

"Lord Tarly," Gendry calls as he slows. "What's going on up there? Can you see Arya?"

Tarly looks toward him, as though caught unawares. It isn't hard to imagine why, with the racket above. "The queen is hardly visible from here. I want to ride ahead with only a few scouts, find a clearing to observe from."

"No wights? Or Others?" Nym asks.

Shaking his head, Tarly turns to see Mormont and Reed approaching from the other side. The woman and her daughters have left their scout trailing behind them, but Reed and two of his tall helmed soldiers behind him arrive at a slower pace.

"That fighting up there isn't meant for us," Mormont says gruffly once the new members of the party join them. "We have no business in a war with dragons."

The idea that the dragons might be fighting _each other_ hadn't occurred to him until Mormont voices it. The sounds of the roaring is moving farther away, in nearly the opposite direction. "That's Arya, too," Gendry snaps. "Either she's fallen off the bloody dragon or she's fighting one up there."

"Aye, and there's not much you can do about it from down here," she reminds him. "We keep pressing forward until we find those white bastards, we kill as many as we can, defend the Wall, keep Westeros safe—"

"Your Grace?" Tarly interrupts, one eyebrow raised in his direction. "Is this your counsel as well?"

Gendry realizes Tarly had intentionally cut Mormont off. He frowns. "Let her speak, Lord Tarly," he rebukes dismissively. To think, once he was actually nervous around a man like him. To think, this is the power he will be giving up when he gives up the throne.

When he turns back to Mormont, she simply says, "If you're worried about your lady, stay behind while we ride on."

"We need the men with us," Tarly argues back instantly.

Gendry sighs for what feels like the fifth time in an hour. "Then take them. I'll stay here and fend for myself."

"We can't leave the King unguarded," Tarly replies.

"I'll stay with him," Reed speaks up. The quiet unassuming man glances from Gendry to Tarly, then back. "I will stay with you."

"Last we heard, your children were with Bran Stark," Mormont says. "You ride on, my daughters and I will stay with the king."

Reed shakes his head. "No. There is nothing I can do for Meera and Jojen now, but if I can still do something for Arya Stark and her husband, I will. I'm staying." Reed turns to the two soldiers following him and adds, "You may make your own decisions, my ladies."

Gendry stares in shock as the soldiers remove their helms, both women at once familiar to him. The square jawed, blue-eyed Brienne he had met several years before when he was still with the Brotherhood, but the second woman he had met even more recently. His sister, Mya. He had not realized she was at the Wall, but realizes now she must have arrived with Sansa.

"I cannot ask you to put your lives in danger because of me," Gendry tells them. "Surely you have heard by now that only swords of Valyrian Steel will cause any damage to the Others. If we are caught unawares, the only blade to do any harm would be Lord Tarly's."

Brienne unsheathes her sword, a glimmering red blade, and says, "Then you will need me most, Your Grace. Jaime Lannister gifted me this sword of Valyrian Steel. Surely you recall from our last meeting."

"And I have the former Lord Corbray's sword, which he left to me before his untimely death," Mya adds. "You will be well protected."

Gendry can hardly believe that they would sooner stay with him then march on with a seasoned general like Tarly, but he nods and says, "I'm grateful for your assistance."

"Looks like you're the one who'll be pressing on alone, then, Lord Tarly," Nym smirks, and Gendry knows her decision is made as well.

Tarly huffs and steers his horse sharply away, making his way back to the frontlines, leaving Gendry and his small party alone. Gendry turns to those who had chosen to stay with him, the Mormonts, Reed, Brienne, Mya, and Nym. It isn't quite what the songs and legends talk of, but suddenly Gendry can't imagine anyone else by his side but Arya.  

A particularly loud roar from the sky rumbles the ground they're on and the horses whinny nervously. "We’d best be on our way, then," Gendry tries to sound confident, adjusting the harness of his hammer.

It's Jorelle Mormont, the young dark eyed girl with more bravery than he'd seen in fully grown knights, who responds, "Come, King Gendry, let us find Queen Arya."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This was only supposed to be 10 chapters but I had to add one more! Sorry, all. Next update should be done a lot faster. Shout out to Meli for encouragement and making me get all emotional over the Starks at three in the morning.)


	11. All Seven Hells

It's getting harder to hold on with every passing second. Arya doesn't know how she's still managed to stay on but she suspects Jon may have something to do with it. She can't see his face but his body is loose and bouncing around far more than she is – if it weren't for the saddle, he'd have fallen off by now. But Rhaegal is much calmer now. Jon must have skinchanged.

They're trapped, too close to Viserion, who chases them at the slightest chance. Clutching tight to Jon, Arya tries again to get another look at Viserion, but between the occasional jets of fire the golden dragon aims their way and Rhaegal's flying, all she can see are the same dark figures. Her heart is pounding too fast.

She keeps thinking of Bran.

Jon's limbs are suddenly firm once more, and then, "I can't keep this up," he yells. "I can't go into Rhaegal and stay on him at the same time."

Rhaegal snarls and flies into a loop. Arya lets out a yelp as her world turns upside down, the weightless feeling in her stomach turning into sudden pressure as gravity weighs her back. It takes her a second to catch her breath, flames whipping past her face close enough to singe. At least now they're behind Viserion, though it does them no good. It takes only seconds for dragons to twist and change directions mid-air.

"We have to land," she manages, just choking back nausea.  Snow whips into her face, stinging, and she needs to squint to keep her short hair from flying into her eyes. "Jon, we have to land!"

When he doesn't react, she realizes he must have skinchanged again, which explains Rhaegal's slightly less bumpy flying. Should she try Viserion again? What if it's really Bran in there? What if Bran's one of the riders on the other dragon?

_What do they want?_

Taking a shaky breath, Arya closes her eyes and is only just beginning to reach out to Viserion when Jon screams. Arya's eyes fly open, just in time to see Rhaegal's claws connect with Viserion's tail.

She'll swear later it felt like time itself slowed, but now she reaches out a hand to the green dragon. Her breath catches in her throat. They're so close to the hooded riders, if her fingers could just reach the fabric of the second ones hood, just a little more.

The material is rough under her fingertips, and even though Rhaegal's wings are crashing into Viserion's side and they're all going down too fast, her grip on the hood is solid as she pulls and it crumbles into dust.

Long white hair falls free and the figure turns, the red mark on his neck, his empty eye socket, skin as white as snow and death. The stench of rotting wood wafts out to Arya.

Her hands are wrapped around nothing. Rhaegal is falling away from her, away with Jon, and Arya's falling alone through the air.

::

Mya rides beside Gendry at a slow easy canter. They exchange stories, she of how she'd only started learning to duel a year ago, he of how he'd always had a hammer in his hands.

"Of course, the reason I use it has changed," he smiles and she laughs. She has a loud laugh, the kind he used to have as a child before his mother had died and he'd stopped laughing.

"I inherited Lady Forlorn from Lord Lucas Corbray when his wound festered, killing him. His brothers had no children and he trusted me more than them anyway," her face fills with pride as she says it.  "He said I was the fastest learner he'd ever taught. He said Lady Sansa would be proud to have me in her guard."

The way she spoke of him made Gendry think there was something more going on between them than just swordfighting. It would certainly explain how the lordling left a family heirloom in her possession instead of his brothers.

A loud boom interrupts their conversation. They hear the crash before they actually see anything, a sort of rattling thunder that shakes the ground they're on. Gendry's horse bucks under him and a high screech fills the air.

"The dragons," Nym yells, taking off in the direction of the sound, and the rest follow without a moment's hesitation. It doesn't take long before they begin to see signs of the dragons – a whole section of branches burning on the ground, an entire tree uprooted and lying in their path. The woods get less dense the more they travel, more snow on the ground rather than up in the trees.

They find Arya before they find dragons. She's hanging off a branch when they come upon her, one hand dangling in the air, the other holding to the branch. There's at least fifteen feet of air between her and the frozen ground.

Mya is the first to reach her, calling up, "Your Grace!"

Gendry can't imagine what she must have been going through, but when she looks down and spots his face, her lips open into a smile, despite the precarious way she sways in the air. He smiles back dumbly, forgetting they were in the middle of a war with monsters that wanted to kill them and dragons that could roast him in seconds, forgetting everything but her.

Then Brienne dismounts and says, "I can catch you," and he remembers everything again, clumsily getting off his own horse to help, though he's not sure how. She's a head taller than him, bigger than everyone except perhaps Maege Mormont. But he runs forward anyway, realizing Arya's coat is lying on the ground. Oh, gods, how long has she been up there?

"You're sure?" her voice is wobbly.

"I'm down here, too! We'll catch you," Gendry tries to sound reassuring.

He hears the deep breath she takes and he thinks she's letting go, then, "Which one of you is catching me?"

"Brienne," he answers instantly.

Brienne nods and says, "I _will_ catch you, please believe me."

He prays to the Seven, to the Warrior to give Brienne the strength to catch her. Gendry can feel six pairs of eyes on them, on the distance between Arya and Brienne of cold empty air.

Another deep breath. The arm holding on to the branch is trembling. All he can see is the set of her chin. His knuckles are white where his hands form into fists around her coat. "Arya-" Gendry begins.

"Okay! I- I'm coming down, okay?"

She lets go and Gendry's heart drops with her. He flinches instinctively. Thankfully, Brienne doesn't and, with a huff, Arya is being set down on her feet.

He grabs her, wraps his arms around her, and kisses her hard. "Don't you ever do that again, don't you fucking dare," he snarls, kisses her again, then pulls away to add, "I was scared out of my mind, we heard the dragons and all I could think was that you were up there!"

She laughs, a tiny sound that seems on the very verge of a sob, then turns her gaze toward Gendry's soldiers. She seems to size them up, then, "Where's Jon? Did you find him yet?"

"We don't even know what happened up there," Nym frowns, then points in the direction of the sparse woods, where smoke is drifting up. "We heard the crash from over there."

Almost as if in answer, a single dragon rises from the treetops. The wrong one.

::

Gendry looks regal. Proper. His coat is lined in gold and black, Baratheon colors, and his hammer is strapped across his spine, his broad shoulders making it look like an easy task. His voice is comfortable in its confidence as he gives out orders to the others, the set of his eyebrows daunting. Though they're riding, something Gendry had never been the best at, now he doesn't even seem to notice.

He finally looks like a king, here and now, now that it was coming to an end.

"We'll need to split up; there could be a trap waiting for us. Viserion seems to have disappeared but we can't take that chance. Mormont, take your daughters, Brienne, and Reed through the west, I'll head east with Mya, Nym, and Arya. Now the important thing is to ensure Brienne is always in a position to use her sword. Just because we haven't seen any Walkers yet doesn't mean they aren't around, waiting. As long as you find Jon, don't worry. He has his own sword and he's quite the fighter, and he has a dragon. We have Mya and Arya's sword –"

"Wait, what's this about swords?" Arya interrupts, peeking behind Gendry on his horse. It was a miracle she hadn't lost Widow's Wail when she fell, but she would've had Needle regardless, tucked away in its sheath in her breeches.

Gendry looks embarrassed as he turns back to face her. "Valyrian Steel," he says. "It's the only thing that can kill them. Mya has another sword so we'll be well protected"

She realizes when she'd been attacked by them, she'd been using Widow's Wail, made from her father's own sword. Oh. That explained it. "What about you?" she asks, nodding to the Mormonts.

Brienne holds out her sword. "Jaime gave me this," she answers, and now it's turn for her face to flush red. "It's the other sword made from Ice."

"That's hardly enough protection for all of you. Mya, you should go with them."

"Your Grace," Mya shakes her head, "You cannot be left undefended."

Arya frowns. "There's someone else," she says, sticking two dirty fingers in her mouth and whistling loud and clear through the woods. For a long moment, nothing happens. The horses scuff their hooves on the frozen ground. Gendry glances at her with a single eyebrow raised in question.

A moment later, Nymeria bursts through the woods. Behind her, still remaining in the trees, the rustle of other wolves as her pack follows.

Arya leaps off Gendry's horse and reaches out her hand to Nymeria, who huffs and rubs her maw against Arya's fingers. She kneels and Arya manages to clamber on, still sore from her unfortunate incident with the tree.

"Nymeria can kill them. I've seen it," Arya tells the others. "We'll be fine."

There's hesitation, but Gendry nods curtly and they disperse their separate ways.

Before Mya rides over, she slows her mare beside Gendry and lets her hand rest on his shoulder. "Stay safe, brother."

"And you," Gendry replies, and for a moment, his carefully put upon face flickers. Arya can visibly see him swallow before he says, "We never needed him and I know it doesn't matter, but for what it's worth, I think father would have been proud of us."

Mya nods, then she's moving on and Gendry guides his own horse closer to Nym and Nymeria. "Ready?"

The three take off.

"Arya," Nym begins, "You mentioned the man with the mark on his neck and only one eye riding Viserion."

Arya had told them what happened to her with Jon but hadn't gone into detail. They were pressed for time and Jon was the priority. "He smelled like the crannogs. Like rotting wood."

"He sounds familiar. Have you heard the stories of the Bloodraven?"

"Brynden Rivers," Gendry pipes in. "Varys told me about him. He was a Lord Commander, wasn't he?"

"But more," Nym adds. "He was known for his dabbling in magic. When he was the Hand, he relied on sorcery and wildfire, from what we can gather. What if he's responsible for the White Walkers?"

Arya shakes her head. "A man. Just a man. How can he be the one behind this?"

Nym has no answer. They ride on in silence.

It's in this silence that they first hear the sound. The same keening Arya had heard when Viserion was first close. Rhaegal's keening. "I hear him!" she says, coaxing Nymeria faster.

"Arya, we need a plan," Gendry calls, but Arya is riding too quickly to pay much attention. She spots Rhaegal's green scales ahead. It doesn't take long for her to reach close enough to be able to see what had happened.

Rhaegal's left wing is almost entirely ripped from its socket. She can see blood, thick and red and smelling like smoke, more than she could ever imagine.

"Jon," she cries, and Nymeria growls as Arya tries to urge her on. Sighing, she jumps from Nymeria's back and makes her way closer warily on foot. Behind her, Gendry is telling her to be careful. "Jon?" she yells, trying to be heard over the deep, strangely purring sound coming from the wounded dragon and strains to hear.

"Arya?" the voice is weak and she nearly misses it, but it's coming from the other side of Rhaegal's form. Arya runs around Rhaegal, noticing his fluttering eyes and great heaving sighs. She finds Jon, one leg under Rhaegal's shoulder, the dragon's right wing spread over him like a blanket.

Arya's stomach roils. "Seven hells," she whispers, grabbing onto Jon's shoulders to haul him out. "Gendry! Nym! I need help!" she tries to keep her screams from trembling.

Jon grunts as he slips an inch forward, slick with dragon blood. "My leg," he manages. "I think it's crushed. You'll need to lift Rhaegal."

The others arrive just as Arya puts his arms around her neck. Nym and Gendry work on lifting Rhaegal's shoulder, the tendons throbbing tangibly as Arya slides Jon away.

His leg _is_ crushed under the knee. The foot is no better than a stump. Bone is visible under tatters of muscle, even worse than the dragon.

"Jon," she murmurs, glancing up at him. There are tears in his eyes. "Oh, Jon," she clutches closer to him, supporting him enough to sit up.

"I know," he answers and stops to catch his breath. "It doesn't look like Rhaegal can survive this."

She realizes then that his grief is less for his mangled leg and more for Rhaegal.

"Help me up," he says, and Gendry comes to pick Jon up, letting Jon lean on him as they bring him closer to Rhaegal's face. "His wing," Jon shakes his head. "Nobody can fix this. He'll never fly again."

A familiar roar sounds in the sky. Nymeria yips and races across the clearing to Arya, and she isn't sure if it's in fear or the desire to protect her human.

"They're back," Nym says, already reaching behind her for her bow and arrow. Even as she nocks it, she must realize the futility of measly arrows against a dragon, because she lowers it and asks, "What do we do?"

Amazingly, Rhaegal's getting to his feet, perhaps in response to the challenge. His tattered wing hangs uselessly by his side, but he opens his jaw and lets loose a growl that reverberates in Arya's chest. They back up, giving the dragon room to stand to his full height. His pale green underbelly looms over them and his undamaged wing spreads over Jon and the others.

"He's protecting us," Jon says. "He's protecting _me._ "

"But he can't do it forever," Gendry argues. "He's already hurt and Viserion has the advantage."

"My lady," Jon turns to Nym. "Aim for his throat. There is a spot under his jaw where the scales of the neck do not overlap the scales of his face that will be disorienting… it will be nearly impossible to strike, but it will be better than doing nothing."

"You underestimate my skill," Nym tells him and sets her sights on the moving target, flying in circles that come ever closer to them. Her first shot goes wide, but the second arrow actually manages to hit closer. Unfortunately, it bounces harmlessly off Viserion's golden scales. "We need to bring him down here," Nym says.

Jon nods. He takes a deep breath and says, "Hold on to me," and before anyone knows what he's doing, his eyes have rolled back in his head and he slumps against Gendry as his body goes completely limp.

Arya curls her fists in frustration and Nymeria tenses, reacting to her stance. That stupid Lord Commander. He hadn't bothered to warn them.

Above them, Rheagal roars to life with uncharacteristic energy. A column of flame spurts from his mouth, clipping Viserion's wing and ruining his trajectory. He spirals down unexpectedly and Nym shoots, misses as the arrow only grazes his scales with an audible noise.

Rhaegal's fangs snap together, and his single wing rises in a half flap, as if he's trying to take flight but has forgotten about his wonded wing. With an anguished screech, Rhaegal spits fire again toward his brother.

This time, Nym's arrow sticks straight out of his neck. Viserion's pained roar echoes in the forest and he abruptly loses altitude. The golden dragon hits the top of a tree and Nym shoots again, piercing the sensitive flesh just beside her first arrow. Viserion hangs there for a moment, proving an open clear target, and Nym wastes no time nocking a third arrow that flies straight in beside the others.

Viserion spills down into their clearing ungracefully, and all three of them dash for cover, Gendry and Arya supporting Jon's body, Nym and Nymeria at each other's side.

Rhaegal's long neck reaches up and his jaws come down on Viserion's leg. The _crunch_ of bones and the wail after it follows the group as they find cover in thicker foliage. Viserion scrapes a gash down Rhaegal's belly as he falls to the frozen ground, hard enough that they hear something pop. The dragons (or at least the humans controlling the dragons) seem to have forgotten the mortals under them.

And there, tumbling down from the dragon's back, the hooded riders hit the ground just as hard.

"Who is it?" Jon hisses, and Arya jerks up as she notices Jon is back.

"I can't see from here," she tells him.

"We can't go any closer," Nym warns them. "Any moment, Rhaegal and Viserion are going to clash with each other again, this time in much closer quarters. We could be easily caught in the crossfire."

But to their surprise, the dragons focus on nursing their wounds. Viserion has managed to rid himself of the arrows and is hopping on his unbroken leg, favoring the other, and Rhaegal's long forked tongue laps at the wound on his belly.

"I don't understand," Gendry whispers. "They would fight… unless…"

The shorter of the two figures lying on the ground stirs. His hood slips down, revealing long auburn hair and a face as pale as the snow, blue eyes blinking as he drags himself up on his elbows.

"Unless his controller has released him," Jon continues what they were all thinking out loud. "Unless Bran released him," he finishes the sentence, just as Bran looks up at them.

Arya's heart is pounding in her chest. Her eyes are blurring and her hands are shaking. She steps forward, drawn to her baby brother. He doesn't seem a baby now. Scraggly brown hair sprouts from his chin and the angles of his face are gaunt.

Jon grabs her arm before she can step any farther away. "Look," he tells her quietly.

The second figure is rising, the one she had seen before. A spindly figure, barely capable of getting to its feet, but with a face marred and clear for them to see. His single eye focuses on them. His mouth opens, but for a moment all that comes is a sad dry cough.

Finally, he says in a voice as old as the forest, as rough as the bark on the trees, "We've been waiting for you."

"Bran?" Jon calls, ignoring the other man. "Bran, can you hear me?"

Bran just stares at them, his gaze on them but somehow far away.

"He can hear you," the man says. "He can hear what you're saying now and here, but he can also hear what you said yesterday and the day before, and every day before that in every place you have ever been."

"What have you done to him?" Arya demands, her anger besting her constraint as she pulls away from Jon.

"Nothing he did not ask for."

"You're the Bloodraven," Nym accuses.

He smiles. "I have been called many things. Names I do not remember. Names I have not been given yet. I believe there are names for me I cannot possibly speak with this tongue. It has been a long time since I have used it."

"I'll rip that bloody tongue from your mouth if you don't tell me what you did to my brother," Arya snarls, glancing from a still comatose Bran to the smug man. She snatches Nym's bow and an arrow, aiming for the Bloodraven's heart. "I swear, I'll destroy you."

The dragons shift behind the Bloodraven, their eyes peering at the spectacle now.

"My dear child," he says, taking a step forward. "I am the lifeblood of your world now. Destroying me would destroy this boy."

"Why are you doing this?" Gendry demands, and Arya can feel his temper rise with her own at every word from the pale man's mouth. She keeps her arrow aimed.

The Bloodraven cocks his head, holding up a single finger. "Do you hear that?" he asks soft in a whisper.

Silence for a long moment. The woods are asleep, the dragons watching in quiet with their huge liquid eyes blinking. Bran is barely breathing. No sound of soldiers. Even Nymeria and her pack out of sight seem to be listening.

"No," Arya snaps at last. Her arm is trembling, still drawing the arrow back. "I don't hear it."

"That is what is wrong," the Bloodraven murmurs, leaves rustling and crackling from his throat. "The Children have gone quiet. The trees no longer sing. My own companions abandoned me. A man puts a scrap of iron on his head and calls it a crown, and he tells his soldiers to kill the Children. He tells his soldiers to slaughter the trees, to burn them down to the root. He buries those roots under stone and dirt. He hunts animals for the glory of it. That is what man does. Now it's our turn."

A pang of guilt runs through Arya. She'd been wearing her own scrap of metal up until a few days ago. She knew the power iron held, iron when it had no sharp edges, iron when it weighed nothing as a coin and came with a name to send to the Many-Faced God.

"But you are a man yourself," Nym says, but her voice wavers with hesitation, as if she isn't sure herself.

He shakes his head. "I've become one with the trees," he tells them. "I've made the boy one with the trees. We hear them now, we hear the music that will come once we have killed you and your ilk."

As they watch, the Bloodraven points at Bran. Bran rises, a puppet. He rises with his broken feet to the ground, then floating above the ground. His white skin begins to turn brown, his hair a peculiar green. His feet elongate to touch the layer of dirt on the frozen ground, then burrow further down into it.

The dragons seem dumbfounded. Nymeria whimpers. None of them can look away, utterly transfixed in fascination and horror.

"Stop," Jon murmurs, though he does not move any more than his lips. "Stop it."

Arya's arm is beginning to ache, keeping the arrow nocked. "Should I kill him?"

"You can't," the Bloodraven hears her hushed whisper. "The strike would kill your brother as well. But if you are still having your doubts," he laughs, and from behind begins to roll in a fog so thick, everything vanishes behind it into a cloud of whiteness.

Viserion hisses a thin stream of flame that is swallowed by the fog. Rhaegal tries to flap his wings but the one that is ripped form its sock only flutters weakly.

The fog begins to solidify and distinct images begin to form.

White Walkers.

::

An arrow whizzes past Gendry and he realizes it's the one Arya had held drawn for a while now. It passes harmlessly through the quickly solidifying figures and disappears into the ever-thickening mist. Arya lowers her bow and turns to him, a helpless expression on her face.

"What happened to Bran?" Jon demands. "I can't see him anymore in the fog."

Gendry is glad for it. Bran's skin had all turned to bark, his face nearly disappeared into uniform smooth brown. Gendry had recognized the tree, a weirwood with it's massive scraggly branches and broad leafs. It was disturbing. He doesn't think he can focus on anything other than the image of Bran's features blending into nothingness.

But Bran's disappearance means the dragons have disappeared as well, and the thickening mist is advancing closer to them, becoming more and more solid with each passing second until distinct faces begin to appear.

Snow begins falling from the sky. Fat wet flakes covers them. The sky had been cloudless minutes ago. Gendry can feel the temperature dropping.

"Arya, shoot again," Nym says. "They look physical now."

She does. The arrow flies straight into the face of the White Walker. The arrow recoils off his icy cheek, but Gendry can see the Walker stagger back a tiny amount.

"It doesn't penetrate," Gendry realizes, "but it can still slow them down."

"Then we'll do the rest," Arya says, drawing Widow's Wail from it's sheath. "Nymeria?" she glances at the massive direwolf and nods.

"Don't just charge," Jon begins to warn.

Arya charges.

"Fuck," Gendry hisses. "Jon, I need to—"

Jon looks down grimly at his crushed leg, then nods as he hops to lean on the tree closest to him. His face contorts in pain as he says, "Go after her. I'll be okay."

He unstraps his warhammer as Nym pulls her sword. He plunges into the mist after Arya where he can already see her slashing at still half-formed Walkers, melting them down into puddles of blue. Nym follows close behind.

Gendry swings his hammer straight into the face of the closest Walker, watches it stumble downward. As he suspected, the hammer doesn't leave a dent. But it still causes some damage. He smashes the one closest to Arya, just as she whirls around and stabs it through the chest. It fades with a splash, and he catches a glimpse of Arya as she blocks a Walker Nym had already weakened.

He turns, just in time to see a Walker raise a sword of glistening ice at him. He brings his hammer up, but the cold and blinding white dulls his movement. Too slow, he realizes as the sword comes closer.

Unexpectedly, the Walker melts. Behind it, Nymeria glares with fierce dark eyes, maw wet with the ichor of the creature. She jumps on powerful hind legs and bounds away in Arya's direction. Gendry goes after her, managing to parry off a Walker with his handle and swinging into another so hard, it falls to the ground – but did not dissolve.

Nym and Arya are fighting in a circle with their backs to each other, moving all the while. Though they have different fighting styles, they have a tactic: Nym would slash her sword at a Walker, slowing it enough that Arya would finish the job when she came around.

When Nymeria leaps into the fray and closes her fangs into the neck of a Walker, the circle breaks. Gendry notices the Walkers are becoming more and more difficult to see as they solidify and form an armor over their pale skin, something like smoke that blends in with the fog, like his breath is nearly invisible in the condensation around him.

The next attack seems to come out of nowhere and Gendry staggers back with the force of the hit he just manages to block. The cold is beginning to seep into him under his coat and furs, under his chainmail and armor. He can only hope either Arya or Nymeria get to him in time as he strikes over and over again at wisps vanishing back into the air faster than his eyes can track.

Snow swirls around him. The wind must have picked up.

A Walker appears before him and he brings the hammer down on his chest. It staggers down and just then, a blade plunges through it's icy form. On the other end, bright blue eyes peer at him.

"Brienne!" he cries, but just as she focuses on him, a creature appears behind her and he screams, "There!" She turns back and white snow swallows her whole.

 _They must have arrived when the fight had already begun for us_ , he thinks dimly. His mind is beginning to get tired, even as he smashes yet another Walker and dodges quickly away. He wished his hammer was Valyrian Steel.

Completely unable to see, he flounders and swipes his hammer at anything in his way.

Someone grabs his shoulder. "Retreat," he hears Arya hiss in his ear. "This way." He reaches out to take her hand, wet and cold as metal. Beside them, Nymeria presses close to Arya as she walks.

She guides him, and though he can't use his hammer with one hand, he can hear her grunts as she slashes through Walkers, leading him out of the fray and the suddenly icy air. His wet coat is brittle around him as the cloth freezes.

Suddenly, he finds himself free again, back to the edge of the forest where they had started.

Just behind him, wind howls. He and Arya turn to face the wind, stretching up to the sky like a beam. It stops just before them, a self-contained storm. Nothing is visible inside.

"Your Grace," a small voice says behind them, nearly lost by the shrieking wind. Jorelle, eyes wide, stares up at them. Lyra is staring into the tempest with a hard expression on her face as Jorelle says, "My mother went in there with Lady Mya. She still isn't out yet."

"They went to look for Brienne," Reed adds. Gendry hadn't realized the man was standing there, but now he sees beside him stands Nym, who's doubled over catching her breath and looking more battered than he feels, sword still drawn.

"You can't go back in there," Arya tells him, raising Widow's Wail. "It'll have to be me. Where's Jon?"

"Down here," Jon answers. He's hunched over on the ground behind Nym, scowling. "I tried to skinchange into Rhaegal, but when I did, all I saw was whiteness and I could hardly move. I was afraid of hurting Bran."

Nym kneels and says, "We have to do _something._ We can't kill that many Others. And even if we do, they're replaced faster than we can fight. Their power is coming from the Bloodraven. They're only alive because of him."

"But so is Bran," Arya says quietly. She looks torn, chewing on her lower lip. There's blood on her face. Gendry only now notices the cut above her eye that looks like it has frozen shut, and it drives a shard of pain at his own gut.

A commotion brings him back to alertness. Mormont and Brienne have returned from the vortex, Brienne breathing hard and carrying two swords, someone slung on Mormont's back.

"Mya!" Gendry screams, bolting forward and helping them lay her down. Her coat is dripping crimson and ripped in several places. Blood coats her teeth.

Nym is beside him, yelling, "Let me see her. Gendry, let me see her."

Panicked, he presses both hands against where he thinks the blood is coming from. She has no armor on. Seven hells, why isn't she wearing armor?

 _Because she isn't a knight,_ he knows. But that doesn't stop the fury and despair bubbling in his chest. Nym is trying to move his hands, but it isn't until Arya grabs his shoulders and drags him away that he's able to move his hands off her.

Mya's eyes flicker, unable to open completely, and he knows it in the pit of his stomach, knows what's happening. He can feel it before he hears Nym speak words that he can't completely hear but can understand the meaning of. She's dying.

He tastes rust on his tongue. He sobs in Arya's arms, not fighting her grip anymore, and she strokes his hair.

The only family he'd had left. He hadn't realized how much she meant to him until now.

He doesn't know how long he stays there on his knees, hiding his face in Arya's shoulder. Between shaky breaths, he hears the others trying to formulate a plan, but it keeps coming back to the same place: killing the Bloodraven would either kill or free Bran, but who was willing to take that risk?

"Whatever we decide to do, does that mean we'll have to go back in there?" Brienne demands, gesturing at the tornado of white that didn't seem to care about them. "Who among us knows what's going on in that hell now?"

Gendry looks over every person standing around them, at Jorelle and Lyra clustered around their mother, who has Mya's dried blood streaked over her clothes, at Reed, the small man looking prepared to do anything, at Nym burning with the same anger in his veins, at Brienne, her eyes solemn and cast down toward his sister. Even Nymeria sits on her haunches, worn out. Her pack is out of sight and he wonders if they've abandoned her.

"I'll do it," Jon says. "I'll do it with Rhaegal. Once I skinchange, I'll be right there, in the center with the Bloodraven. I know Rhaegal can't see, but I know what I have to do and I'll do it."

"You can't go in there alone," Arya tells him. "You'll need someone else."

"And if I hurt you in there? I'll be blind, I'll be thrashing about, trying to hit whatever I can. Rhaegal could crush you under his foot and never notice you were there."

"Not if I'm Viserion."

It takes them a moment to fully grasp what she's getting at. Gendry stares at her, grey eyes narrowed in challenge.

"Don't," Gendry murmurs and she just looks at him sadly, shaking her head. She's already made up her mind, but he can't let her go. How can he, when his sister is lying dead only a few feet away?

"Could you do it?" Jon asks her. "If you knew what might happen to Bran?"

Arya closes her eyes, brow furrowed. "Yes," she whispers.

"Don't," Gendry repeats inanely.

She kisses him softly, chaste but slow. Then her eyes are rolling back in her head and instead of holding him, Gendry is the one holding her as her body slides loosely to the ground.

Jon follows her quickly, his tense body relaxing against the tree. Immediately, the first unmistakable dragon roar cuts through the howling winds and Gendry reflexively tightens his embrace around Arya.

"They shouldn't be in there alone," Nym says to no one.

Gendry leans Arya gently against a tree and reaches for Mya's sword. "Let's go," he tells her, getting to his feet. "We kill the Bloodraven as soon as we see him."

"Quickly, then," Brienne adds. "Nym, you'll be between us and our swords, directing us which way to go. Lady Mormont, Lord Reed…"

"Yes, we'll be here with them," Reed says, nodding to Jon and Arya.

Gendry nods. He takes a deep breath. He wishes he was taking his hammer into battle, but Varys had been sure he learned to fight with the sword enough to get by. "For Mya," he yells, running forward into the white wind.

He hears Brienne and Nym running with him, and another panting sound. Nymeria, behind them, then he doesn't hear anything at all but the screeching and grumbling of the tempest.

Mindful of Nym, he charges straight at the first Walker, parrying when it raises it's ice arm sword, thrusting straight into it's chest. He doesn't bother to wait to watch it disintegrate, drawing back Lady Forlorn and diving straight for the next one.

"Ahead to the left," Nym is calling, and he adjusts, keeping his attention on the Walkers on his side, knowing he's guarded by Nymera behind them.

They melt out of the winds, out of nowhere, and Gendry slashes, counterattacks, blocks, until he feels his arm will fall off if he raises it again. He's so cold, cold down in his bones and beneath his skin, but his anger warms him. All the while, he follows Nym when she yells a direction. He isn't sure how she's directing them, but it doesn't matter at this point.

He's too tired to go back now.

A Walker appears behind him, and before Nymeria can come to his rescue, it slashes at his arm, leaving a bloodied gash. He thanks the Warrior his fighting arm was spared, but there's too much blood and no respite to bandage the arm. He still manages a thrust that spears through the Walker.

Just when he thinks it's all over, Nym and Brienne disappear from view and a moment later, he and Nymeria break through the howling wall of snow into a calm whirling with heat and flame. Smoke chokes Gendry. He doubles over, coughing, notices Nym is pressing her furs to her mouth and nose and tries to repeat the action.

He can't see or think. He can't breathe. He stumbles backward and freezes as he realizes he'll return himself back into the snowstorm. But the storm is disappearing, it's walls shrinking away from the center.

He knows what the ice melting away into fire means. Whatever Arya and Jon are doing, it's working.

::

Jon doesn't give her a single moment to adjust to the dragon's mind, of which she'd only gotten a taste a few days ago. As soon as she catches control of herself, Rhaegal nudges at her unwounded leg with his unwounded wing. She thinks she knows what Jon's saying.

There's no more snow. The dragons had made their own way to the center of the whirlwind. The only things here that Arya can make out through the distorted vision of the dragon is a tree. She can't even see the Bloodraven anywhere, turning in a full circle.

There's only the weirwood… Bran.

She still isn't sure how she feels about it. When she turns her gaze to Rhaegal, his green scales subdued but distracting, he has the same puzzled expression on his face that Jon does as a human. She makes a keening in her throat, ending it at a high pitch. A question.

That's when she spots it. In the tree, as if carved into the bark in perfect detail: three eyes, the left one a perfect blank polished sphere, the other two on the right and one above staring straight ahead.

The Bloodraven had joined with Bran. They were both within the tree. To destroy Bloodraven _did_ mean destroying Bran.

With Viserion's curved claw, she points Rhaegal toward the eyes, and he rumbles in his throat as Jon understands. They would have to destroy both her brother and the monster.

Jon had asked her if she could do it. But now she thinks she can't. Rhaegal steps forward, tail flicking through the air, and comes to stop by the base of the tree. A thin stream of flame escapes Rhaegal's mouth, sizzling just at the roots of the tree. That's where Jon plans to attack.

Arya shakes Viserion's massive head, moving backward, but when her tail grazes against the edge of the storm's eye, she stops.

She can't do it. She can't. She's no Faceless Woman, she's no Queen, she's just a scared little girl who wants her family and Gendry.

But it isn't a choice, and she understands that. Jon is willing to do what must be done for his world, even if it means sacrificing his little brother. He's stronger than she is. He is doing what their Father would have done. They were both better men than she, who would let the world freeze if it meant Bran would be safe. But it didn't work like that.

Squeezing her huge liquid eyes shut, Arya opens Viserion's maw and roars.

A column of flame as thick as the trunk of a tree spurts straight toward the weirwood. She hears more than sees Rhaegal join in, can feel the heat from his jaws, can feel both of their flames catch and crackle the branches of the leafy weirwood.

By the time she works up her nerve to open her eyes again, thick black smoke is pouring into the clearing. Rhaegal's flame has a peculiar green tinge, and her own sparkles gold, but it's all the same orange as the weirwood catches fire.

A screech fills the air, deafening. Arya stops her flames to shake Viserion's head to get rid of the noise. It _pains_ her, both her dragon and human mind. She can't stand it.

Beside her, Rhaegal's right wing flutters in her face. She has to keep going.

So she does, despite her mind splitting into thousands of shards, despite the blinding smoke and the stench of rot, Arya keeps her mouth open until she feels Viserion's throat burn with his own flame, until the fire in his belly seems quenched and everything hurts. It feels as though she has been screaming and has no more breath left, not even to inhale and breathe.

She destroys the Bloodraven and Bran and the world implodes, darkness spreading until there's nothing.

::

He wakes to small powdery snowflakes on his face, cool and gentle.

Gendry groans as he sits up. The ground is charred. There is nothing but ash beneath him. His face feels coated with the stuff, his bleeding arm aching. He coughs, the inside of his mouth dry, an intense thirst coming upon him in the exact moment.

He manages to get to his feet. Lying on the ground are Brienne and Nym, both stirring. The dragons glare at him as he walks past them, but seem uninterested in anything but their own wounds once they see he is no threat. He helps Nym to her feet, returns Brienne's sword to her. They had survived.

"Ready?" he asks, gesturing back to the thicket of woods they'd left the others.

They walk slowly, taking in stock of their injuries and aches. The ground beneath them slowly returns back to grozen ground. Once Gendry catches sight of movement through the trees, he breaks into a run. He's the first to reach them, their little group. Someone has laid a coat over Mya, covering her face. He's thankful for it.

Jon is holding Arya, both still on the ground, silent with tears in their eyes. They had lost Bran; their grief was shared. They had lost a brother the same hour he had lost a sister.

"Arya?" he says softly. She glances up. Her smile is sad as she kisses Jon on the cheek and rises to her feet.

"It's over," she says, voice hoarse. "Gendry, I – I think it really is over."

"Are you okay?" he asks.

She shakes her head, then takes his hand and says, "Come on."

They leave the others behind, Arya talking quietly as they do. "Tarly and the others will realize soon enough it's over. They'll be coming back south once they do. You and I should talk before them."

"What?" Gendry asks, frowning. Then he realizes. It's almost laughable, to worry about it now, to even talk about something so petty when she's just burned her brother and an immortal old man who had become a tree. "Are we talking about how I'm not king anymore? Don't you already know?"

She hesitates, shakes her head. "I don't care," Arya says, her voice low but fierce. There are tears in her eyes she doesn't let fall. "I don't care about any of it. My brother is dead, Gendry, my mother and father are dead. I don't care about the fucking throne or the crown or any of it. I love _you,_ no matter what."

It's the first time she's said the actual words to him. She reaches forward and kisses the dumbstruck expression from his face, grabbing his collar to pull him closer.

"I didn't want the throne anyway," Gendry whispers. "I only ever wanted you, Arya."

"Gendry, we're going to have a child," she murmurs.

He had imagined the future, of course. Even this one. But he'd never imagined it actually happening.

Not like this anyway, in the middle of a battlefield, covered in the ichor of monsters and soot covering his face. He sits down hard, right there on the muddy half-frozen ground, not noticing slush soaking into the back of his furs, not caring about it either.

For a moment, he thinks he should be angry, that she had been so reckless and thrown herself into a war knowing what was at stake. But instead, all he can do is stare straight forward, lost.

Arya's eyes stare at him, waiting for a reaction, glinting under the dim light that filters through the trees. The blood smeared on her face has dried, hair tangled and falling on her forehead in sweaty clumps. She looks absolutely mad. Gendry has never loved her more.

Concerned, she kneels by him. "Gendry?"

He cups her cheek in his rough hands, hands that had been his when he was a bastard and a king, an orphan and a blacksmith, a husband and a warrior. "The moment I knew you loved me was the happiest moment of my life, Arya. Nothing means anything without you."

Gendry holds on to her tight, and she smells like iron and smoke and salt, thinking his words over, then, "Let's just leave," she tells him. "Please. It'll just be us, you and me and the baby. I – I can't stay here anymore. I can't go back to King's Landing or Winterfell or Braavos. But where I am doesn't matter if you're with me. We've won the war, haven't we? Jon and Sansa are both protected. They don't need us anymore."

"I would follow you through all seven hells," he promises. He is hers.

There are still tears in her eyes that spill down her cheeks when she smiles. She pulls him to his feet and whistles a sharp short note. Nymeria bounds into the clearing.

Arya kisses him and leaps on to Nymeria's back, holding out a hand to him. He takes it, struggles for a moment to find a foothold in the direwolf's matted fur, and hoists himself up behind her. She turns once to kiss him, then they take off through the forest.

They ride away from what was left of the war, holding on to each other, needing nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should be celebrating finally getting through this, or at least celebrating that YOU have managed to stick with me through this. Thank you for reading and also for putting up with that ridiculous half-year break. 
> 
> Fun fact, I rewrote the ending four times, once where Gendry dies and Arya rules as Queen Regent until their child comes of age, one where Jon gets stuck in the body of the dragon after his physical body dies, and a really weird one where Dany comes back with Aegon and I don't really know where that was going so I backspaced it halfway through.
> 
> Anyway, again, thank you so much, and I apologize sincerely for not having my shit together.

**Author's Note:**

> "There is no happy ending for us. You've seen the stories.  
> In the end I'd be bent over your slain body."
> 
> "Miss the gunshot, the final blow.  
> But think, he said, how sad all that you're missing."
> 
> \- Jeannine Hall Gailey


End file.
